


charles xavier and the goblet of fate

by mnabokov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter AU - Fandom, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, First Time, Harry Potter AU, Harry Potter Crossover - Freeform, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who’s that one?” Charles nods towards a serious-looking player with a sharp jaw, looking dramatically into the distance.</p><p>“Lehnsherr,” Sean murmurs, almost reverently. </p><p>Angel frowns. “What?”</p><p>“Lehnsherr!” Sean swings his head to face the rest of them, eyes comically wide. “Erik Lehnsherr! The Bulgarian seeker!”</p><p>Glancing around their campsite, Charles begins to see more of this Lehnsherr, his stern expression plastered on many tents. “He looks rather serious,” Charles remarks and Sean lets out an exasperated noise.</p><p> “Rather serious? Who cares what he looks like! He’s insanely good and he’s really young, too! He’s only eighteen or something. He’s a genius, just wait until tonight; you’ll see!”</p><p>“Charles is a genius, too,” Raven cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed. </p><p> <br/>-</p><p> </p><p>In his seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Charles competes in the Triwizard Tournament, meets the international Quidditch star Erik Lehnsherr, and tries to cop that foreign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back to Westchester

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to [Shiratori_uta](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiratori_uta/pseuds/Shiratori_uta) for looking this over for me. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

 

 

 

The summer is dreadfully warm, sunlight leaking into the ubiquitous glass windows at Westchester and staining the wooden floors, a sticky heat pervading throughout the house. The mansion is quiet, Charles’ mother locked up in her room somewhere, and Raven wandering through the house. Even the kitchen is swelteringly hot, which is why Charles Xavier finds himself against the cool brick of a shaded face of the mansion, back pressing into the wall of the West Wing, looking out into the garden.

           

His ebony wand taps on his knee idly, and as Charles stares up into the sky, where cumulus clouds lazily float by, he wonders how long he’s been sitting there.

 

A call wafts through an open window from behind him and jolts Charles from his reverie. “Charles! Get in here, they’re coming!”

 

“Be there in a moment,” he calls in response, and straightens up quickly, brushes grass from his cardigan as he rounds around the mansion, still shaking dirt from his pants when he enters through the front door, sees Raven standing in the foyer, unamused.

 

“Were you out in the garden again?”

 

“I was keeping track of the weather,” Charles waves a hand dismissively, heading quickly into the living room.

 

Charles can almost feel Raven roll her eyes behind him.

 

In the living room, the fire burns merrily, its flames dancing within its brick confines, green and bright. Charles tugs at his cardigan to allow a bit of air to reach his neck.

 

For a moment, the fire roars, impossibly loud, and then eases, flames dying down to reveal Darwin, who coughs as he steps out of the fireplace.

 

“Hello, Darwin,” Charles grins.

 

“I told Alex I wanted to take the Knight Bus,” the boy grumbles, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, Alex appears, striding out of the smoke.

 

“At least we don’t have to stoop in the fireplace,” Alex remarks, nodding at Charles and Raven.

 

“We’re meeting Sean and Angel at the top of the hill soon,” Charles glances at his watch, “And we’ll Portkey from there to the campgrounds.”

 

The sun beats down relentlessly as the four of them trek up the hill, and the air shimmers with heat.

 

Charles mutters, “Almost there,” when he sees Darwin grab onto Alex’s bag for support.

 

“It’s an old frying pan, isn’t it?” Raven calls out, more than three yards away from where the rest of them struggle to climb the hill.

 

“That’s the one,” Charles answers, and Raven lets out a whoop of joy.

 

“Found it!”

 

“Finally,” Darwin breathes, and a zephyr ruffles their clothes and hair as they stand on top of the hilltop, forming a semicircle around the rusted pan at their feet.

 

“I see Sean and Angel!” Alex points to two blurred figures coming over the side of the hill.

 

Charles purses his lips, counts them on his fingers. “Five, six, that’s all of us, then.”

 

Clapping Charles’s shoulder, Raven nods in an overly grave way. “Thank you for taking your chaperoning responsibilities seriously, Charles.”

 

“Hank’s already been at the campground with his family for a week, and Tawfiks aren’t coming, so – ”

 

“Everyone grab onto the pan,” Raven interrupts him and Charles glares at her with false annoyance as she grabs on to the handle, holds it up for everyone to place a finger on.

 

The zephyr dies as everyone shifts to make room, circling around the rusty pan. Charles feels a dribble of sweat pooling at the back of his neck as he stretches out to place his thumb on the rim of the pan, the metal scorchingly hot against his skin.

 

He hears Sean grunt to his left, and then he hears nothing; he feels the familiar jerk in his stomach as the world blurs around them, overcome with vertigo, and suddenly, he leans forward involuntarily, a strong wind ripping at his hair, clawing at his clothes –

 

And then nothing.

 

Charles blinks, sways upright.

 

Beside him, Raven and Alex stand, although looking somewhat ruffled, Sean and Angel and Darwin are collapsed on the floor, blinking rapidly.

 

“Always rough the first time,” Charles says sympathetically, reaches down to help them up.

 

“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,” says a voice.

 

Charles finishes yanking Darwin up, turns around to see a grumpy-looking wizard, clad in somewhat inconspicuous clothes.

 

“Hello,” Charles approaches him, holds out a steady hand. “Xavier, reservation for a campsite for six. I believe we’re under R for Roberts.”

 

The wizard blinks at him unbelievingly. “You’re with them?” he waves a hand, encompassing Raven, Darwin, Alex, Sean, and Angel.

 

“Yes, I have the papers if you’d like to see them. We reserved our spot almost three months ago, Mr. – ?”

 

“Basil,” the older wizard says wearily. “Yes, fine, go ahead. Just pay Roberts and make sure you don’t lose any of them.” Once more, the wizard waves a tired hand at the children behind Charles and Charles smiles unwaveringly. “Good day, Mr. Basil.”

 

“Do you think Hank’s campsite is near ours?” Raven strolls by Charles as they lead their assemblage through the crowded campsite, past families of witches and wizards from, what looks like, all over the world.

 

“We’ll see,” Charles says, craning his neck to see over the various tents, cottages, and other contraptions, over steaming pots and flying streamers, trying to look for their campsite.

 

“Maybe we can find him before the game starts,” Raven interjects, and Charles glances behind to make sure – four, five, six heads – that everyone is accounted for.

 

“Perhaps,” he says absent-mindedly. Then, “Ah! Here we are!”

 

A small cottage stands in front of a vast field, where, on rolling grass, hundreds upon hundreds of tents have been erected, each one flying flags that ripple in the wind.

 

“Thank God it’s cooler here,” Charles thinks he hears Angel mumble as he strides up to the man collecting fees.

 

“Xavier, for six. Campsite four-hundred and three, I believe.” Charles holds out the money and the papers, which are carefully creased and folded, accurate for each one of his party members. Charles had spent a few days going over the papers, working slowly and painstakingly to ensure that there would be no hitch in their meticulous plans.

 

However, the man – Roberts – barely glances over the papers, nods distractedly, and waves them in the general direction of the campsite.

 

“Mr. Roberts,” Charles nods, waves his hand to his group behind him, striding confidently into the campsite, regardless of the fact that he – an eighteen-year-old boy – leads a handful of students no more than one or two years younger than him, into what has to be one of the largest, rowdiest gatherings of the Wizarding community in Europe.

 

Charles allows a grin to break across his face as he turns around to face Raven and the rest of them, sees the fluttering flags of Ireland and Bulgaria around them, the inexorable stream of yelling and hollering as toddlers zoom around at the ankle-level on mini-broomsticks. “Well,” he smiles, “Welcome to the Quidditch World Cup, my friends.”

 

Alex lets out a whoop and Sean follows eagerly, the two of them running down the rows of eclectic tents.

 

An exhilarated laugh erupts out of Charles’ chest and he feels his shoulders loosen as Angel grabs his hand, drags him down to chase the boys.

 

“Found it!” Sean yells, points to a lot: 403.

 

“Well done,” Charles smiles, nods to Alex.

 

Alex shoulders off his bulky knapsack, and Darwin comes around to help him take out the tent.

 

As Alex, Darwin, and Raven attempt to arrange the wooden pegs into the ground, Sean and Angel read out the instructions loudly. Charles lets out a contented hum, glances over the sea of tents to see various colors from both Irish and the Bulgarian Quidditch teams.

 

When he hears an elated cry, Charles glances back to see Raven and Angel pulling the sides of the tent up eagerly. He jogs over to wave his wand, carefully uttering a spell to straighten the wooden pegs, righten the tent.

 

Raven rolls her eyes. “Just because you’re eighteen now doesn’t mean you have to use magic to do _everything_ ,” she groans and Charles shrugs, smirking all the while.

 

“It’s amazing, look!” Darwin uses a finger to gesture at the images magically plastered on to the sides of some tents to their right. The flaps of the tents shimmer with representations of the Bulgarian team, scowling back at Charles.

 

He spies a few familiar faces, rippling in the wind. “Who’s that one?” Charles nods towards a particularly large tent a little ways off, its entire side depicting a serious-looking man with a sharp jaw, looking dramatically into the distance.

 

“Lehnsherr,” Sean murmurs, almost reverently.

 

Angel frowns. “What?”

 

“Lehnsherr!” Sean swings his head to face the rest of them, eyes comically wide. “Erik Lehnsherr! The Bulgarian seeker!”

 

Glancing around their campsite, Charles begins to see more of this Lehnsherr, his stern expression plastered on many tents. “He looks rather serious,” Charles remarks and Sean lets out an exasperated noise, throwing his hands up, evidently not impressed with his companions’ lack of knowledge.

 

“ _Rather serious?_ Who cares what he looks like! He’s insanely good and he’s really young, too! He’s only eighteen or something. He’s a _genius_ , just wait until tonight; you’ll see!”

 

“Charles is a genius, too,” Raven cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed.

 

“Wasn’t appointed Head Boy for nothing,” Alex agrees, shaking his head, as if he can’t believe that Charles had actually received the gleaming badge just a few weeks before.

 

Sean rolls his eyes. “Lehnsherr is incredible, just wait.”

 

“Thought you were supporting Ireland, Sean,” teases Angel and Sean lets out an indignant noise.

 

“Of course I am! But Lehnsherr’s one of the best Seekers Europe has ever seen!”

 

“Hang on,” interrupts Alex, and Charles begins ushering the group inside the tent. “Wasn’t Lehnsherr playing for Germany last year?”

 

“Right,” Sean nods eagerly, finally having found someone to discuss the glorious abilities of Erik Lehnsherr with, “He was, but Bulgaria signed him on after some financial issues.”

 

“Wait, I heard about this,” Darwin agrees, piping in suddenly as the assemblage shoulders into the tiny tent.

 

Inside, the tent’s insides have been magically expanded, allowing for enough space for the six of them, with a kitchen and bathroom to spare.

 

“He left Germany because Bulgaria offered him more!” Darwin says, eager to contribute.

 

“That’s not true,” Alex argues, “Nothing was confirmed.”

 

“All that we know for sure,” Sean directs this to Charles with his eyebrows raised into his hairline, “Is that when Lehnsherr switched from Germany to Bulgaria, it was the worst thing that’s ever happened to the German team.”

 

“And,” interjects Raven, “The best thing that happened to the Bulgarian team.”

 

Charles frowns. “I didn’t know that you followed the teams.”

 

She shrugs, heading off to claim one of the bedrolls. “I think he’s handsome.”

 

Angel lets out a peal of laughter, clutching a pillow from her spot on the couch and Charles has to forcibly insert himself between Sean and Alex before the two end up in a fistfight over Erik Lehnsherr.

 

They settle in quickly enough for a party of six, and Charles leads Raven and Darwin out. “To see the campsite,” they had insisted, but Charles thinks that they want to look for their friends from Hogwarts.

 

“You know,” Raven remarks, as they head out of the tent, leaving Sean, Angel, and Alex behind, “Just because you’re a seventh-year – ”

 

Darwin chimes in, “And Head Boy,” and before Charles can so much let out an indignant splutter, Raven talks over him. “You don’t have to baby us all the time. We can take care of ourselves too, you know, Darwin and I are going to be sixth-years and – oh! Hank!” she breaks off, running across the grass to meet the tall boy.

 

Charles sighs to himself as Darwin follows, the three of them congregating a little ways off, the sun low and bright behind them. Charles draws his cardigan closer around himself. It’s hard to believe that, just a few hours ago, he was in Westchester, sweating profusely and trying to escape the heat of the sun. Here, the sky is pale and clear, the sun drooping low and amber on the horizon.

 

Charles ambles behind the trio – Darwin, Hank, and Raven – after a brief greeting with the boy with glasses, content to simply ‘chaperone,’ as Raven had called it, from behind.

 

Around him, he sees some wizards wearing all-white robes, some donning black leather, some with long, sleek, black hair that looks like ink, and others with no hair; he sees witches with heels that look like daggers, witches clad in shimmering leather and others in traditional Hanfu.

 

He sees Helen Cho, a seventh-year prefect who is also in Ravenclaw, and Charles nods to her, raises one hand in greeting. She smiles from her place beside her younger brother and their family, sitting around a fire, cooking something in a pot.

 

Charles hugs Moira McTaggert, another girl from Gryffindor, and sees a few other familiar faces, but mostly just follows Raven and Hank and Darwin as they meander through the ocean of tents, eager to see the entire gamut of culture that the campsite offers.

 

Eventually, though, he has to call them back, as the sun slips from its perch, and the four of them walk back to the tent to pick up Alex, Sean, and Angel, who have – surprisingly – not destroyed the tent in Charles’ absence.

 

Sean and Raven attempt to start a fire with matches in front of the tent, an array of broken matchsticks surrounding them, but their faces painted with mirth as they fail to start any kind of spark. Charles takes pity on them, lights the fire with a sharp, _“Incendio!”_

 

Alex and Darwin are trying to cook with a tin pot when Charles rises to his feet, extends a hand and offers a smile to the man stopped in front of their tent.

 

“Mr. McCone,” Charles greets, and the older man shakes his hand limply. He turns to tell everyone behind him, “This is John McCone, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation – ”

 

“Yes, hello Xavier, and you’ve brought your entourage with you as well, I can see.” The man wears a gray suit, by far the most conspicuous Muggle clothing that Charles has seen this afternoon, and glancing around their campsite. “Pity your mother couldn’t come.”

 

“Regretfully, she had business to attend to at home,” Charles sees the edge of Raven’s mouth quirk at the lie, “But she sends her condolences. We greatly appreciate the tickets you’ve – ”

 

“Right, right,” McCone waves a hand easily, his gaze not lingering on Charles for more than a minute at a time, “Well, I just wanted to see how you were settling in.” He glances to where Alex and Darwin are cracking eggs into the tin pot.

 

“Fine, thank you,” Charles says, feels a twinge of impatience when the other man turns away, says distractedly, “Right, well, I must be off.”

 

“Charles, come help with the eggs!” Angel shrieks and Charles turns away from McCone’s receding figure to see egg shells littering the grass, their broken shards like white pieces of glass against the field.

 

A sense of anticipation and excitement rises over not just Charles’ cozy tent, but the entire campsite as the last vestiges of sunlight drain from the sky, a palpable cloud of energy thrumming around them as, slowly but surely, the witches and wizards begin heading toward the woods, following a lantern-lit trail.

 

Charles casts a low _Lumos_ , gathers everyone up as they head eagerly towards the enormous stadium, glittering silver and gold under hanging magical lights.

 

He hears a collective gasp from in front of him as Charles herds his assemblage towards the stadium, and he can’t help but let out a low chuckle.

 

“It’s amazing,” Angel murmurs, and she squeaks when a salesman appears with a loud crack in front of her, carrying a tray laden with Bulgarian merchandise.

 

“Care to buy figurines? Omnioculars? Replay the game through these, folks, and you’ll never miss a thing!”

 

Sean mumbles something about saving up his money and Hank purchases a mini figurine of Erik Lehnsherr that, when placed in his palm, strolls around, eyes wide as it glances around.

 

Salesmen Apparate and Disapparate along the trail as they proceed towards the stadium. However, Charles barely spares them a glance, as he’s already working hard enough to keep the five of them in line.

 

“Right, I see it, I see it,” Charles says absent-mindedly when Angel attempts to show him how the omnioculars can slow down real-time, too busy trying to keep Sean from being swallowed up by the fervent salesmen.

 

As they ultimately reach the stadium, Charles pulls out his tickets, ushers the group into the floor entrance and keeps counting – “Three, four – Alex come back here!” – as they migrate to their seats.

 

“Wow,” Sean breathes, his eyes glassy as they finally sit down and Charles lets out a long breath of relief.

 

From their seats, Charles can see a man dressed in gray dress robes pull out his wand, point it at his own throat, and say, “ _Sonorus!_ ”

 

“Ladies and gentlemen… Welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!” the man says, his voice booming into every corner of the stadium, magically amplified.

 

Around him, Charles hears the children yelling excitedly, and mentally pats himself on the back for a job well done.

 

As the commentator introduces the mascots of each team, Sean says eagerly, across Charles to Alex, who sits to Charles’ right. “Bet you that Ireland will win, but Lehnsherr’ll get the snitch.”

 

“Lehnsherr’ll get – ” Alex repeats, flabbergasted, “Of course not! Did you see Ireland _destroy_ Italy in Paris? There’s no way.”

 

Money swaps from hand to hand across Charles’ lap and Charles eyes the two Galleons in Alex’s pile, but says nothing.

 

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome – the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you – Dimitrov! Ivanoa! Zograf!”

 

As the commentator speaks, figures clad in scarlet zoom out, onto the field, from an unseen entrance, flying across the field, and the crowd cheers wildly. Charles grins in spite of himself, and, even though he hasn’t gripped a broomstick since his first year at Hogwarts, he thinks he understands now – the exhilaration of soaring through the air, nothing more than a blur to the naked eye –

 

“Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaaaaand – _Lehnsherr_!”

 

“That’s him! That’s him!” hollers Sean and Alex thrusts a pair of omnioculars into Charles’ lap. Sean follows the figures with his omnioculars and Charles focuses his own.

 

Erik Lehnsherr soars across the field on his broomstick, thin and dark, clad in scarlet, and Charles can barely make out the sharp line of his jaw, his cheeks, as he zooms into the stadium.

 

“And now, please greet – the Irish National Quidditch Team!” yells the commentator, “Presenting – Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaaaand – _Lynch_!”

 

As a team of green figures zips into the stadium, the game begins with a rush, the referee kicking opening a large wooden crate and releasing four balls into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black bludgers, and the minuscule, winged Golden Snitch.

 

Charles loses track of the game soon after that, puts down his omnioculars, which are covered in multifarious knobs and dials, and simply watches with his own eyes, content to see the players zipping around without any idea of what was really going on. From what Charles can see, Lehnsherr plays ruthlessly, wastes not even a single moment with indecision.

 

Sean and Alex, however, as they flank Charles, are emphatically watching through their omnioculars, yelling out both insults and praise as the players rush by.

 

“Bulgaria is in possession of the Quaffle once more!” the commentator yells and Charles watches as a scarlet-clad figure suddenly dives down.

 

“Jesus,” Charles breathes, watches as Lehnsherr’s robes flutter around him as he plummets towards the grass of the stadium floor.

 

“That’s it!” bellows Alex, “The Wronski Defensive Feint!” as Ireland’s seeker chases after Lehnsherr, the two of them diving straight downwards before Lehnsherr abruptly pulls upwards, leaving Ireland’s seeker to plow into the grass. Lehnsherr pulls up smoothly, moving so easily through the air that he looks weightless.

 

“What an idiot!” Darwin moans, “Lehnsherr was feinting!”

 

“Fascinating,” Charles murmurs, watches the rest of the game unfold with mild interest.

 

As the two Seekers soar after the Golden Snitch, the entire stadium seems to rise, Irish and Bulgarian supports alike, screaming as Lehnsherr eventually catches the Snitch.

 

“Ireland wins!” the commentator shouts, sounding a bit surprised at the abrupt end of the match, “Lehnsherr gets the snitch – but Ireland wins! Good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!”

 

Almost immediately, Charles rightens himself, looks to both sides to make sure the entirety of his party rises together, heading to the same exit.

 

He’s still counting heads – “Five, six,” he mutters to himself – as they head back to their campsite, Sean and Alex vehemently explaining to Darwin and Raven why Lehnsherr ended the game early.

 

As they make their way back into the tent, Charles thinks of the way his omnioculars had slowed the Quidditch players, enough so that Charles could see the way Lehnsherr’s hands gripped his broomstick. Charles falls asleep thinking of the way Lehnsherr’s face was absolutely focused, zeroed in on the Snitch with a kind of intensity that made Charles shiver. He dreams of scarlet robes and broken egg shells on grass.

 

-

 

Summer fades into fall, long days of sun and sweat and heat giving way to long nights of glinting stars, eating underneath a dark sky in the garden of the mansion at Westchester. The air feels lighter, cooler, as Raven and Charles begin packing their trunks, making the occasional trips to Diagon Alley to purchase new school supplies.

 

“Dress robes?” Raven frowns at her list. “Why would we need dress robes?”

 

Charles waves his hand vaguely in answer and she harrumphs, buys a new pair of blue dress robes anyway.

 

The first day of September rolls around sooner rather than later, and Charles huffs as he drags Raven along to the train station, pushing their belongings into the wall between platforms nine and ten.

 

Darwin, Hank, Alex, and Angel join them in their usual compartment and Charles watches as the green landscape flies by, blurring into the sky as the Hogwarts Express chugs along.

 

Nostalgia overwhelms Charles as they eventually step off the train, into the carriages that lead up to the school. Their carriages trundle up the familiar sweeping drive, rumbling and splashing their way up the track towards Hogwarts Castle.

 

The Great Hall looks its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast, warm and inviting in comparison to the cool air outside. Golden plates and goblets gleam underneath hundreds and hundreds of floating candles, and Charles, in his black robes and Head Boy badge, begins ushering the first-years down the middle for the Sorting.

 

Boys and girls with varying degrees of fright on their faces slowly clamber up the steps to the stool, don the grimy Sorting Hat. Job completed, Charles makes his way down to the Ravenclaw table. He smiles at Angel and Alex at the Gryffindor table, Sean at Hufflepuff, glances at Raven where she shoulders into a seat at the Slytherin table, and takes his own seat next to Darwin and Hank.

 

And finally, with “Whitby, Kevin!” a Hufflepuff, the Sorting ends; Professor Quested picks up the hat and the stool and then carries them away as the Headmistress stands. She smiles around at the students, arms open in welcome. “I have only two words to say to you: _tuck in_.”

 

And a murmur fills the hall as the tables creak, food magically appearing on their plates.

 

When their bellies are full, the pudding demolished, the last crumbs fading off their places, leaving them sparkling clean, the Headmistress rises once more, beginning her traditional start-of-term speech.

 

“Now that we are all fed and watered,” she begins, launching into a few notices and restrictions that Charles listens to absent-mindedly. Then, “It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.”

 

A collective murmur rises from the Houses. The Headmistress goes on, “This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy – but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

 

“You’re _joking!_ ” says Sean loudly.

 

The Headmistress chuckles as the students laugh. “I am _not_ joking, Mr. Cassidy. Some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so allow me to give a short explanation.

 

“The Triwizard Tournament was initially established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of Wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. It was generally agreed to be an excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities, so this year, the International Department of Magical Cooperation have worked hard to put together the competition once again.

 

“The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween.  The winner receives the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

 

“I’m going for it,” Sean whispers, voice carrying across the tables and Charles reflects upon the brief knowledge that he’s acquired about the Triwizard Tournament; if memory serves correctly, each task is perilous, demanding the utmost performances from champions. Charles lets a little thrill flutter in his belly before the Headmistress speaks again.

 

“Only students who are of age – that is to say, seventeen years or older – will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration.”

 

The students begin to clamor loudly at that, most fifth- and sixth-years beginning to rise from their seats. The Headmistress soothes them with placations of personal safety and then concludes, “The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests and support the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. For now, we will enter our lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

 

“Lucky you’re already eighteen then,” Hank murmurs from Charles’ side as the latter begins ushering the first-years out of the door. “Are you going to try?”

 

Charles thinks of the death toll from previous Triwizard Tournaments. “Maybe. Ravenclaws! This way! Follow me please.”

 

“Bet Alex and Sean’ll be pissed,” Hank mutters.

 

“And you?” Charles turns to his fellow seventh-year.

 

“Not seventeen until April,” Hank confirms. “Not that I’d try anyway.”

 

Charles lets out a laugh as they make their way to the Ravenclaw common room. “You never know, Hank, you never know.”

 

-

 

The classes bleed into days bleed into weeks as Charles finds himself in the easy rhythm of life at Hogwarts once more. He wakes early in the mornings to eat breakfast with Hank and Raven, sometimes with the rest of their group, before heading to class, working studiously until lunch, and then studying in the libraries until evening. There is no time to think about the Triwizard Tournament, not with the end of Charles’ time at Hogwarts approaching.

 

October rolls around suddenly, the air abruptly crisp in their lungs and the sky littered with fat clouds. The grounds of Hogwarts seem to shudder and inhale, as if buckling up for the winter to come. Charles simply tightens his robes, dons his blue-and-silver scarf, buckles down and continues studying diligently as ever, sleeping more in the library than in his dorms.

 

The thirtieth of October comes and Charles finds himself lining up in front of the castle alongside Sean and Raven, amidst a thrum of eager students, waiting for the arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. The evening is cool around them, the sky just beginning to twinkle with stars, like the scattering of salt across a dark blue tablecloth. Charles shivers. He tugs his scarf tighter around himself.

 

“How do you think they’ll come?” Raven eagerly asks Darwin, who stands beside her.

 

“Broomsticks?”

 

“A Portkey?” suggests Angel, who stands in front of them, watching the sky, rapt.

 

“ _There,_ ” Charles says, his sharp eye spotting something hurtling over the forest – a gigantic horse-drawn carriage soaring through the sky.

 

The carriage comes to a rumbling stop in front of a group of Hufflepuffs, who back away frantically as a boy jumps out of the carriage, opens the door to allow the Beauxbatons students to exit the carriage. A woman with fiery red hair steps from the carriage first, her long locks curling over her shoulder.

 

“My dear Madame Grey,” the Headmistress greets her, and the women begin exchanging pleasantries as about a dozen boys and girls spill from the enormous carriage, their fine silk clothes shimmering in the moonlight.

 

“Has Munroe arrived yet?” Madame Grey asked.

 

“She should be here any moment,” answers the Headmistress.

 

“The horses – ”

 

“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, James Howlett, will be delighted to take care of them.”

 

Madame Grey murmurs something in response and someone yells, “The lake! Look at the lake!”

 

From their position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds, the Hogwarts students can see the surface of the lake, rippling violently, water purling around one particular spot in the middle of the lake, waves shattering the serenity of the lake as a magnificent ship rises out of the water, it’s mast high as it is wide. Light leaks out of portholes on the sides of the ship, refracting eerily on the lake.

 

As the Durmstrang ship anchors, students begin spilling from the vessel, strolling across a plank and up to the castle, clad in shaggy, matted fur coats.

 

“Headmistress Braddock,” a woman leading the entourage says cooly, her hair silver and sleek, like the furs of her coat. “How are you, Headmistress?”

 

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Munroe,” the Headmistress replies and as the Durmstrang students draw closer, Munroe looks back to beckon a particular student forward.

 

“How good to be here again…” she says, eyes sharp and calculating, “Erik, come along, into the warmth… you don’t mind, Braddock? Erik has a slight head cold…”

 

As the student steps forward, Charles manages to catch a glimpse of a sharp jaw, steely eyes. He doesn’t need the pinch that Sean gives him, or the hiss in his ear, to recognize that profile.

 

“That’s him! That’s _Lehnsherr_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For convenience, I've moved the Xavier mansion to Westchester, England. Additionally, I used J. K. Rowling's "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" as a reference, so there are some lines of dialogue that are written by Rowling, particularly the ones during the Headmistress' speech at the beginning of the year.


	2. The Goblet of Fire

The moon perches high in the sky, peering down on a collection of shrouded figures cloaked in black shadows and black robes alike. Clouds blur the sky, pale and white against the buttery yellow of the moon. In the distance, water laps against the shores of the lake.

 

As the students, from both Beauxbatons and Durmstrang as well as Hogwarts, begin shuffling back into the castle, Sean hisses, “I can’t believe it! I knew he was young, but I had no idea he was still in school!”

 

“He’s just a Quidditch player, though, isn’t he?” Charles murmurs as the crowd moves back into the warmth of the castle, bodies swaying back and forth, robes rippling like a current through a sea of students, waves pulsating towards the shore.

 

“ _Charles_ ,” admonishes Raven as she sidles up to their conversation, “He’s one of the best Seekers in the world!”

 

“I’m sure,” mumbles Charles as they gather back in the Great Hall. Here, the warmth of the castle soaks into his robes, chases away the chill that’s settled on Charles’ skin.

 

“Hey look,” Angel points as they shuffle towards a table, the House banners absent as the students mingle and sit at the long tables, regardless of house. “It’s McCone!”

 

Sure enough, John McCone sits at the head table, between Professor Howlett and the Headmistress.

 

“International magic cooperation,” Charles murmurs to himself. “Makes sense.”

 

Hank snags a seat next to Charles. “What was that?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Dinner progresses loudly as the Durmstrang students sit at the end of one of the tables, murmuring amongst each other, Lehnsherr in the middle of them, his skin tan underneath the floating candles. At the end of their own table, Charles sees the Beauxbatons students, engaging in tentative conversation with a few Gryffindors.

 

Sean keeps up a steady stream of information about Erik Lehnsherr throughout dinner, the Hufflepuff waving a chicken wing enthusiastically as he claims, “It’s so rare to see Lehnsherr off the field! The paparazzi are always looking for him but,” Sean shakes his head, “He barely gets out. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to talk to them!”

 

“You’d think he’d be going out there and basking in the fame,” Angel shakes his head almost wistfully.

 

“It’s too bad,” agrees Raven, biting into a bit of mashed potato.

 

Darwin watches Sean, fascinated as the Hufflepuff boy begins to describe how lucky they are, how reclusive Erik Lehnsherr is. Charles notices Alex sitting a few seats further down, glowering. Aside from this, however, dinner carries on, animated and lively as ever.

 

As the last of the desserts vanish, Charles sits back in his seat to watch the Headmistress stand up, explain the vagaries of the Triwizard Tournament.

 

“You should do it,” hisses Raven, across the table to Charles and Charles feels that same thrill in his stomach as before. He keeps his eyes fixed on Braddock, taps his fingers idly on the rim of his sparkling gold plate.

 

“I think I’d appreciate a challenge,” Charles murmurs to Hank and the younger boy nods, as if he understands Charles’ particular desire to continually test himself, his perpetual search for internal validation.

 

“The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector,” continues the Headmistress, “the Goblet of Fire.”

 

She taps the top of a large casket with the tip of her wand, the lid creaking open slowly. For a moment, the entire hall waits, students and teachers, Hogwarts students as well as Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students; every single face turns to watch Braddock, expressions open and eager and bright.

 

From within the casket, Braddock pulls out an ornate cup, full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames. Charles watches, entranced, as the fire dances wildly. He thinks of the morning of the World Cup, when Alex and Darwin had Flooed in through emerald flames.

 

“That’s it then?” murmurs Hank, “Put your name in on a piece of paper, and then you’ll be chosen.”

 

“We find out tomorrow night,” Charles confirms, eyeing the goblet speculatively.

 

“Now I think it is time for bed,” Braddock finishes, “Good night to you all.”

 

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Charles says out of the corner of his mouth to Hank, “The age-line that surrounds the goblet prevents anyone younger than seventeen from entering.”

 

Hank nods, makes an intrigued noise, “I wonder if the line – ”

 

“Charles, you gonna do it?” Darwin and Alex bound up to Charles as the students exit the hall, murmuring excitedly amongst themselves. The fur coats of the Durmstrang students and the silks of the Beauxbatons students and the black robes of the Hogwarts students blend together, in an eager mélange of exhilaration and fever.

 

“I imagine so,” he begins, when Sean interrupts with a whispered, “Look! Look, it’s him!”

 

As the six of them exit the hall, Raven and Hank lead their group, Hank most probably explaining to Raven the implications of an age-recognition spell, followed by Alex and Darwin, and then Charles and Sean. As the Hufflepuff whispers, the six of them swing their heads to the right. Charles sees a lithe figure leaning against the wall near the entrance to the Great Hall.

 

A sudden silence falls over them as they walk down the corridor, past Lehnsherr, and Charles allows himself to glance at the infamous character.

 

However, as soon as Charles turns his head, Lehnsherr chooses that exact moment to look up, his sharp gaze catching on Charles’.

 

Charles thinks of the first time he’d seen Lehnsherr’s face, on those tents at the World Cup, and all he can think is, _the photos don’t do him justice_. Erik is all sharp lines and smooth skin, his face highlighted by the soft candlelight, his eyes smoldering.

 

For a moment, they look at each other, sizing each other up and Charles feels himself being raked by Erik’s scrutinizing eyes –

 

And then that’s it.

 

The crowd pushes Charles and his assemblage down the hallway, past Lehnsherr, up the stairs and into their dormitories, the corridors full of the sounds of eager students stampeding down the halls.

 

At the moving staircases, Darwin, Hank, and Charles bid the others good night, taking the corridor with the gargoyle statues to eventually climb the steps up to the Ravenclaw tower.

 

The familiar sight of the Ravenclaw common room soothes Charles, his heartbeat slowing as he enters, silver and blue tapestries rising out of the dark to greet him. A series of shelves spills their books across mahogany tables invitingly and Charles snags a plush blue armchair, sinking in gratefully as he shrugs his bookbag off his shoulder, pulling out his Charms textbook. His muscles loosen in relief, spine slumping, and mind blissfully blank for a moment. Here, Charles feels more at home than he has ever felt at the Xavier mansion in Westchester, as the fire crackles happily, as a few eager third years discuss the Triwizard Tournament eagerly.

 

Inevitably, however, his traitorous thoughts flicker back to Lehnsherr, the way his robes were tight around his shoulders and – _get over it, Xavier, he’s just a Quidditch player_ , he thinks to himself, interrupting his own line of thought.

 

“I think you should do it,” says Hank as he plops into a couch that sits in front of the enticing fire.

 

“Hm?” Charles pulls out his Alchemy notes.

 

“You should put your name in,” the boy with glasses reiterates and Charles looks up.

 

“I was going to, actually,” and from behind them, Darwin lets out a noise of affirmation.

 

Nodding, Hank sits back, evidently satisfied. Charles wonders if he and Darwin had a conversation without him.

 

The fire dances merrily in front of Charles, and for a moment, Charles entertains the notion of becoming a Hogwarts champion. Imagine the challenges, Charles thinks to himself, how difficult they must be! Briefly, he recalls his research on the Triwizard Tournament; his mind conjures up grand images of exotic beasts – enormous dragons with steel talons and iron bellies, beautiful birds of prey with venomous spit – and perilous tasks – champions faced with walls of fire, stone partitions guarded with impregnable defenses.

 

A fourth year boy slides down the handrail of the spiral staircase, whooping with glee and simultaneously jolting Charles from his reverie.

 

“Do be careful,” Charles frowns, eyeing the small crowd that has formed to watch the younger boy.

 

“Alright, but did you see Lehnsherr?” Darwin raises an eyebrow and lets out an appreciative whistle. He and another sixth year girl are discussing the international Seeker with enthusiasm. The sixth year nods eagerly, and Charles turns away, back to his notes. It isn’t easy to concentrate when Darwin begins to wax poetic about Lehnsherr’s eyes.

 

Hank looks up from his book long enough to mutter something about Monroe and Charles forces himself to submerge in his notes, in the familiar chattering of his roommates as they settle in for the night.

 

The next day, Charles wakes in his four-poster bed, _and not the library_ , he thinks to himself wryly, with a real pillow under his head and not a textbook.

 

Around him, the rest of the dormitory is already waking, eagerly preparing for the day ahead of them.

 

“Xavier’s up!” Hank declares when he sees Charles blinking at him groggily.

 

“Hogwarts’ next champion!” crows another seventh-year boy and Charles groans good-naturedly.

 

When the boys begin tugging at his sheets amicably, Charles shoots up, flashes all of them a dazzling smile. “Not yet, I’m not.”

 

And they laugh with delight, tug Charles out of bed.

 

When Hank and Charles finally find Darwin, the three of them head down to the Great Hall.At this time, most Hogwarts students would normally be sleeping in on such an overcast Saturday, but today the Great Hall bustles with energy as students from all three schools form a ring around the Goblet of Fire, as it rests on a rickety stool. Flames threaten to spill over the edge of the cup, as bright blue and vibrant as they were the night before – perhaps even more so in the light of the morning.

 

For some reason, Charles’ gut clenches as his fist tightens around the slip of parchment in his pocket. He steels himself; _just another evaluation, Xavier, pull yourself together_ , he thinks.

 

The crowd of students in front of him part silently as he strides to the goblet, although for someone else, as well, other than himself.

 

From the other side of the ring, the throng of eager faces splits to reveal none other than Erik Lehnsherr, his thin robes clinging to his body. Charles swallows stiffly. Lehnsherr looks at him, his expression unreadable.

 

For a moment, there is no one else in the room besides Charles and Lehnsherr, as the two of them approach the goblet – approach each other – and Charles thinks, for some reason, of two feral predators meeting for the first time, encircling each other.

 

Charles looks back at Lehnsherr, thinks that the light catches in a strange way in his blue eyes and can’t help but glancing over the way the Durmstrang robes fit him like a second skin, revealing his Seeker’s build – _he is_ competition _, Xavier_ , Charles chastises himself.

 

And then the moment is broken, as the two of them drop their papers into the goblet, students milling excitedly around them.

 

“Good luck,” Lehnsherr says, so lowly that Charles isn’t sure if he heard correctly. But then, Lehnsherr looks at him with intensity, his eyes dark, and Charles thinks of that night at the World Cup, when Lehnsherr had been chasing a Snitch with the same ferocity.

 

Charles lets out a sharp laugh – the greatest Seeker in the world, wishing _him_ luck – and Lehnsherr’s eyes narrow. When Charles turns, his heart is fluttering in his chest, but he fights to maintain a cool expression as he throws a casual, “You too, Lehnsherr,” as he strides from the circle to where Sean and Raven watch with twin expressions of disbelief, Alex and Darwin and Angel with envy.

 

“You didn’t even know who he was two months ago,” Sean hisses as the entourage trails after Charles, heading out of the Great Hall.

 

“I still don’t,” Charles reminds Sean, waves to Raven and Hank. “I’ll see you all at dinner tonight.”

 

“Where are you going?” Raven calls after him and Charles chuckles. “The library, obviously.”

 

By the time Charles has finished his Potions essay, it’s around dinner time, so he scoops his books up, places them into his bookbag. He feels relatively calm as he strides down the shifting staircases, strolls into the Great Hall.

 

Amongst the black robes of the Hogwarts students are the silk and furs of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, respectively. Tonight, the foreign students have split, a few here and there, interspersed within the Hogwarts students.

 

“Interschool relations have improved drastically,” Charles remarks as he slides between Angel and Alex.

 

“Thank you, professor,” Darwin deadpans.

 

“No, seriously, Braddock was right about the relations between – ”

 

“Are you nervous?” pipes in Angel and Charles considers it for a moment.

 

“Not really, no. After all, it is just a competition,” Charles remarks self-assuredly, sips at his pumpkin juice, “And whoever is the best wins.”

 

“God,” Raven rolls her eyes. “You’re so arrogant.”

 

Charles opens his mouth to say, no, he’s just confident, when the Headmistress stands up, engendering silence from everyone in the hall.

 

“The goblet is about to make its decision,” announces Braddock, “And I must remind you that once the champion names are called, they are to go along into the next chamber, where they will receive their next instructions.”

 

As if on cue, the flames inside the goblet turn red, and a parchment paper flutters from the cup into Braddock’s outstretched hand. “The champion for Durmstrang will be,” the entire hall holds its breath as she reads, “Erik Lehnsherr.”

 

“No surprises there!” yells Sean as the entire entourage of fur-clad students stands to applause, as Lehnsherr nods curtly at the Headmistress, heads into the next chamber. Charles rubs his hands on his robes to remove some of the sweat.

 

A second paper shoots out of the goblet.

 

“The champion for Beauxbatons is Maha Abdelaziz!” announces the Headmistress and a dark-skinned girl rises from her seat to the applause of her classmates, heads through the door that Lehnsherr disappeared through.

 

Charles reaches out to grab his cup, raises it to his lips to drink as silence falls upon the hall again. But in his head, Charles’ blood pounds, rushes in his ears, an entire sea crashing in his eardrums –

 

“The Hogwarts champion,” says Braddock, “is Charles Xavier!”

 

And Charles feels something swoop in his belly, low and warm and clean. The hall erupts into applause, and along with the blood rushing through his ears, Charles’ auditory senses flood with the cacophony. Many of the students in black Hogwarts robes stand, clapping loudly.

 

Angel smiles at Charles and Charles finishes his sip unhurriedly, walks up to the Headmistress and smiles automatically, reaches up to shake her hand.

 

“Kiss ass,” Charles can almost hear Raven behind him, and he smiles wider for it.

 

He makes sure to shake the hands of both Madame Grey and Professor Munroe as well, before heading through the door into the next room over. It feels slightly surreal; his heart pounds rapidly in his chest, and his blood still races, his body not quite aware that he’s _been chosen_ , that he is the Hogwarts champion now.

 

And yet, as soon as he enters the room, he thinks he can feel the exact moment when Lehnsherr’s gaze, heavy and calculating, lands on him.

 

Charles ignores it as he smoothly walks over to Maha Abdelaziz, offers her warm congratulations and shakes her hand. Charles schools his expression into a neutral countenance as he nods to Lehnsherr, absolutely does not let his gaze linger. _He is competition_.

 

“Guess you didn’t need the luck,” Lehnsherr says, his hands folded into the pockets of his robes and Charles raises an eyebrow. _Play it cool, play it cool._ “Why, did you?”

 

McCone and the three headmistresses stride into the room soon after that.

 

“The first task is designed to test your daring,” McCone tells the three of them, “so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is a crucial quality in a wizard or witch. The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth.” He drones on, his eyes barely meeting Charles’ as he explains the rules and regulations of the tournament. He finishes a while later, not that Charles needed to listen; he’d already read over the rules and regulations in September.

 

“Will you be off, John?” Madame Grey asks, her gaze calloused, as McCone concludes his briefing.

 

The man nods, makes his excuses, and the three champions leave the room. Charles pulse still thrums in his chest, his thoughts dark and murky, a strange mixture of _I made it, I was chosen_ , and _Erik Lehnsherr’s a champion, Erik Lehnsherr is my competition_.

 

Charles and Lehnsherr say farewell to Maha as she heads towards the Beauxbatons’ carriage, and Charles expects the other boy to turn away as well, towards his school’s ship.

 

Instead, as they pass the corridor that leads to the lake, Lehnsherr follows Charles down the hall, their footfalls echoing down the empty corridor, back and forth against the stone walls, reverberating loudly. Something in Charles’ chest constricts involuntarily, his heart racing in his chest, and Charles licks his lips in anticipation.

 

“The ship’s that way,” Charles remarks a second later, coming to a stop, turning around to look the Seeker in the eye. His snark surfaces as soon as his heart begins to palpitate. Charles forces himself to maintain eye contact.

 

“Charles Xavier,” Lehnsherr says, low and mellifluous, and Charles refuses to shiver.

 

“You know my name,” Charles tilts his head, and it feels a bit unreal to be standing here; the candlelight that soaks the corridor in soft light gives the hallway a dreamlike quality, warm and nebulous around the edges. “That’s smart. Really, I’m impressed.”

 

“We can’t all be as clever as you,” counters Lehnsherr, and his slight accent curls his words into a gentle lilt.

 

Charles is aware of his surroundings – the intricate bas relief designs carved from the stone walls of the castle, forming pilasters and volutes and acanthus leaves – Charles _knows_ these halls, but as Lehnsherr takes a step forward, everything seems to blur into stone, candlelight, and Erik.

 

Charles raises an eyebrow, ignores the way his stomach lurches. “As much as I’d love to chat, I’m sure the paparazzi are waiting for you.”

 

Lehnsherr ignores that. “I’ve heard about you, you know. They say you’re the brightest student at Hogwarts.”

 

“I am,” Charles replies, without a touch of arrogance, “And I say that it is late, and I’d rather get back to the dormitories, so if you’ll excuse me.” Charles turns on his heels, forces himself to breathe evenly. _He is competition_ –

 

“Charles?” Lehnsherr calls and when Charles turns, the Durmstrang boy stands under the light of a candle, shadows highlighting the bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his cheekbones. Even the gentle candlelight can’t blur Lehnsherr’s sharp features.

 

“Erik?” Charles allows himself to use Lehnsherr’s first name, schooling his expression into one of neutral indifference.

 

“They also say you’re one of the most charismatic students here,” Erik continues as if he hadn’t been interrupted, his expression one of genuine curiosity. “So, tell me. Why are you going out of your way to charm everyone besides me?”

 

Charles halts.

 

In his head, he answers Erik’s question: _honestly, I’m not quite sure._ Charles thinks it has to do something with the way that Erik carries himself, poised and careful. Or perhaps the way that Erik had seized him up that first night, his eyes bright and burning.

 

He isn’t sure what it is, but Charles’ gut instinct screams at him to be _wary_ – of the paparazzi swarming Erik like flies, of the plastic Lehnsherr figurines that Charles sometimes sees at dinner, of the Bulgarian scarves that everyone seems to be wearing now.

 

Charles clears his throat.

 

Erik watches him expectantly, and _god_ , it’s unfair how attractive he is.

 

Charles allows himself to swagger forward, lips pressed into a tight smile. _Play it cool._

 

“Erik,” he admonishes fondly, and he doesn’t know where the sudden streak of malice comes from, but he asks, “Have you ever considered the fact that, perhaps, I don’t think you’re worth my time?”

 

Out of everything that Charles expects Erik to do, smirk is absolutely _not_ one of them. It’s a small one, barely perceptible, but Charles knows _people_ ; Charles reads body language as easily as a Charms paper, so he doesn’t miss it when the corner of Erik’s mouth lifts very attractively.

 

When Erik replies, his expression is still expectant. “I’d be happy to try and change your mind,” and, _Christ_ , what is he _doing_? Charles gapes when Erik turns on his heels, calls casually over his shoulder, “Good night, Charles.”

 

As Erik turns and heads down the corridor, it seems as though the candle sconces sigh, their flames flickering for a moment before returning with intensity, brighter than before. Charles blinks, and the buttery candlelight is gone, the edges of his vision clear once more.

 

Charles’ mind whirs, even as he meets the crowd of ecstatic Ravenclaws in his common room, cheering his name loudly. Even as Raven – and how Raven got into the Ravenclaw common room, Charles has no idea – pushes a frosty mug of butterbeer into his hand, Charles can’t get the image of Erik’s smirk out of his head. He probably uses that smirk on his fans all the time, Charles inwardly grumbles to himself.

 

_I’d be happy to try and change your mind_ , Lehnsherr had said, and “Jesus,” Charles breathes later that night, in the privacy of his dormitory, the blue-bronze tapestries drawn tight around his bed. What is he playing at? Charles racks his head to think of why, why why why, Erik Lehnsherr would want to try and befriend _him_. Perhaps he’s read one of my papers, Charles thinks, on how to maximize the efficacy of potions, and he wants to employ my help in the tournament –

 

“He’s competition,” Charles says aloud, as if speaking the words will cement them in his head. “It doesn’t matter, because he’s just a Quidditch player who thinks he can smile and befriend anyone he wants, but _I know better_.”

 

“Charles?” someone murmurs from to his left, “Stop talking to yourself.”

 

“He’s competition,” Charles whispers to himself, hopes that the more he says it, the more he believes it.

 

It doesn’t work; Charles falls asleep thinking of Erik as, not competition, but as probably one of the most devastatingly attractive people Charles has ever had the misfortune of meeting.

 

-

 

With the first task more than three weeks away, Charles forcibly turns his attention to his studies once more, much to Darwin and Alex’s chagrin.

 

“You should be preparing for the task,” they insist, as Charles sits under the shade of a tree next to the lake, next to Angel and Raven. Charles waves back to a group of Hogwarts students who call his name from across the grass. Sunlight leaks through a sky full of fat, gray clouds, dappling Charles’ paper with light and shadows in the outlines of leaves. It’s quiet today.

 

“It’s a challenge in the face of the unknown,” explains Charles, breathes in the smell of brine. Further along the lake’s edges, Charles sees Erik Lehnsherr jogging near the water, a throng of admirers trailing behind him. Charles’ viscera tighten into a knot. “There’s no way I can prepare for it. Besides,” he gestures to the paper in his lap, “Maybe the art of potion-making will assist me in the task.”

 

Alex throws up his hands in frustration, and the boys head to the castle in search of food, evidently unamused by Charles’ answers.

 

“You haven’t looked at that book in an hour,” Raven raises an eyebrow at Charles and Charles replies easily, “I’m taking a break.”

 

And yet, for all of his time spent outside, the majority of October and November is spent inside the library for Charles, who is joined by many other seventh years who realize that the world refuses to wait simply because a tournament hangs in the balance.

 

However, Charles realizes one day, that there are others who come to the library as well. Like,

 

“Erik,” Charles raises an eyebrow to see the Durmstrang student sauntering to Charles’ secluded corner. Just at the sight of him, Charles mentally collects himself, beginning to repeat his mantra of _competition, he is competition_ , over and over in his head.

 

Erik says lowly, “Is this where you hide when you’re not ingratiating yourself with the staff?”

 

A low chuckle escapes from Charles’ throat before he can stop it and Charles’ mental barricade shudders, falling with a loud crash as Erik smiles subtly, the corners of his mouth dragging upwards. Suddenly, Charles’ chest constricts, ribs tightening around his heart.

 

“Do you mind?” Erik tilts his head towards an empty chair across from Charles.

 

“Don’t you have posters to sign?” asks Charles and he refuses to accept the fact that his heartbeat accelerates when Erik pulls the chair out silently, sliding into the seat without a sound. Erik doesn’t dignify Charles’ insolent question with an answer.

 

Charles can’t stop himself from saying, “Impressive.” He bites down on his lip to keep from smiling.

 

“You can’t sit in a chair quietly?” Erik asks and his lips are pale, smooth, form his accented words easily.

 

“No, I just mean – ” Charles sighs, runs one hand across the side of his face. _Erik Lehnsherr is your competition_ – “Did you need something, Erik? Can I do something for you?”

 

And Charles’ world seems to shrink the longer Erik sits there, the entire universe boiling down to this single table, to the space between Charles and Erik.

 

“I’m trying to change your mind,” Erik says simply, leans back in his seat and snatches up one of Charles’ essays, begins reading without another word.

 

Charles can’t find an answer to that. He blinks slowly, bewildered, but Erik just sits there, eyebrows furrowing as he reads Charles’ impossibly boring essay on the properties of Sleeping Draught. Charles opens his mouth to say that Erik can find a much more detailed reading about second year potions in _Magical Drafts & Potions_, two aisles to the left. But Erik is brushing one thumb against the side of his cheek, sunlight glinting off his eyelashes, and Charles can’t bring himself to speak.

 

He’s not trying to take information, Charles reasons with himself, so there’s no reason why he shouldn’t stay. After all, it is difficult to find an empty seat in the library these days (all the Hogwarts students know not to interrupt Charles Xavier, Head Boy, as he studies) so Charles is magnanimously bestowing upon his fellow competitor the gift of silence and seclusion. Right, Charles inwardly nods to himself, tries not keep stealing glances at Erik as the two of them fall into silence.


	3. Muggle Plays and Wizard's Chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've probably noticed, I've taken a few liberties here in my rendition of the Harry Potter world. The interhouse unity is one of the first things I've changed in this AU; there will be mentions of House rivalry later on, but for now (at least to Charles) they pretty much don't exist, i.e. everyone eats together and Hogwarts is a giant, happy family. Kind of.

 

Some days, Charles imagines the Slytherin dungeons to be very cozy. Today is one of those days.

 

As he sits in Transfigurations class, Headmaster Braddock begins to describe the process of Transfiguring ferrous metals into nonferrous metals. Their classroom, located on the fourth floor, has walls of stone, a floor of stone, and a ceiling of stone, trapping the cold air inside the classroom. Having read the passage on ferrous metals before, Charles scoots back in his chair, thinks of the steam hissing from cauldrons in the dungeons, warm and sultry, the Slytherin common room nestled in earth and rock, safe from the chill of autumn. Perhaps, if he had asked, Charles might’ve been placed into Slytherin, on account of his ambition. It wouldn’t have hurt, Charles muses, especially not in the winter, when the frost so often crusts on the Ravenclaw tower’s windows. Perhaps, after class, he might head up to the Ravenclaw tower and snag an armchair by the fire, settle into one of his textbooks and doze off.

 

The bell rings, jarring Charles out of his reverie.

 

Braddock excuses the class with a flippant wave of her hand. Before Charles can get up, however, she turns to him and taps on his desk with two fingers, “You’re needed in the old Charms classroom, on the fifth floor.”

 

As Charles opens his mouth to inquire about the nature of this visit, Braddock sweeps herself away in a flurry of fluttering robes. He sighs to himself, dismisses all daydreams of finding a plush couch in the Ravenclaw common room and sleeping off the tension that lines his limbs.

 

Hogwarts’ corridors bustle with students chattering amicably amongst themselves as they head to class. Charles waves to a few Hufflepuff boys as they grin at him.

 

The fifth floor, however, is mostly empty, as he strides down the corridor to the abandoned Charms classroom. It’s an older chamber, one that hasn’t been occupied since Charles’ third year.

 

“Charles!” Maha Abdelaziz greets him as he closes the door behind him, her blue silk robes pulled close around her.

 

“Hello, Maha,” greets Charles companionably. A quick glance around the room shows them that they’re alone. “What are we here for?”

 

“Weighing of the wands ceremony,” she says airily, glancing towards the door. “The rest of them are bound to be here soon.”

 

“How interesting,” Charles murmurs, glancing down at his own wand.

 

When Erik – the last champion to arrive – finally pushes the door open, Charles is emerged in a titillating discussion regarding the practice of using Veela hair as a wand’s core with Maha, almost forgets the way his brain starts to throb inside his skull.

 

“Erik,” Maha smiles at Erik. Erik nods and takes a seat next to Charles, but otherwise ignores the latter, which Charles doesn’t mind at all. McCone and the three headmistresses follow soon after, walking up to shake hands with each champion.

 

After pleasantries have been exchanged, McCone begins to explain the weighing of the wands procedure. “Just to ensure that all of your wands are in good condition before the competition.” he reiterates, and the headmistresses in the back of the room nod.

 

It’s all rather boring, Charles thinks.

 

The wandmaker they’ve brought in procures a bouquet of peacock feathers from the tip of Maha’s wand, a stream of dark red wine from Erik’s, and a flurry of aged papers from Charles’, proclaiming that all of their wands are in perfect condition. The wandmaker’s voice is high-pitched and squeaky, and Charles pushes himself to maintain a smile throughout the process.

 

“Excellent, really!” he squeaks, waving Erik’s wand, which he seems inexplicably fond of. “Eleven inches of black walnut wood, rather sturdy, and a very handsome choice of wood! Reminds me of a blackthorn wand I’d sold just a few days ago…”

 

And as the wandmaker finally leaves, Charles exhales in  relief.

 

Just as Charles moves to rise out of his chair, however, the door swings open once more.

 

The flash of a camera floods the room, and Charles winces, sitting back in his seat.

 

As the smoke clears, two silhouettes stand in the doorway: a man with his face partially obscured by a camera, and a reporter. Charles recognizes the reporter as none other than Emma Frost, her platinum hair curling into voluminous locks around her shoulders.

 

McCone turns towards the three champions. “As you all know, this is Emma Frost,” he gestures towards the witch in white robes, “She’s doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet.”

 

“Maybe not _that_ small, John,” says Frost, her eyes fixed on Charles. Charles shifts uncomfortably.

 

Frost’s hair is fixed in curiously rigid curls, falling over her tight robes that resemble white leather.

 

 “I’ll take Charles first,” she winks and Charles clamps his teeth down.

 

“Right,” says McCone.

 

Braddock murmurs encouragingly and the photographer sweeps Erik aside to discuss the latest Bulgarian quidditch match, no doubt, his camera snapping all the while.

 

Charles and Frost head down the hallway, to a sequestered room where she swings open the door for him. Charles barely has enough willpower to maintain his usual sense of propriety, much less actually pay attention to her.

 

Frost settles on the edge of a desk, teetering precariously on its lip, smiling widely all the while. She unsnaps her bleach-white handbag and pulls out a handful of candles, which she lights with a wave of her wand. Charles blinks, glancing at the curtains that are pulled tight over windows.

 

“Would you like me to undo the curtains?” Charles raises an eyebrow.

 

“Oh, no, dear, it’s fine. You won’t mind, Charles, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill?”

 

“I –  ”

 

“Excellent,” she smiles, Charles thinks a bit unnervingly, reaching into her bag and drawing out a long acid-green quill and a roll of parchment. With a flourish, she dabs the quill on her tongue, then places it upright above the parchment. It quivers for a moment, then hovers over the parchment.

 

“Testing… my name is Emma Frost, Daily Prophet reporter.”

 

Charles manages to read: _attractive blonde Emma Frost, thirty-five, whose savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations_ –

 

“Lovely,” she preens, ripping off the top of the parchment and then stuffing it back into her bag before smiling widely once more at Charles. She leans in. “So tell me,” her dark eyelashes flap, “Charles, what made you put your name in the goblet? Was it the eternal fame? The glory? Certainly not the cash prize,” her eyes glint in the candlelight. “We know you have more than enough to support you at the mansion.”

 

“Well,” he answers smoothly, refusing to let her get to him, “It wasn’t the fame or glory, actually. I entered to prove to myself that I belong here – in the Wizarding World.” He launches into a rendition of how he wants to, more than anything else, push himself to the limits, test where he can and cannot excel.

 

 _Eager and earnest Charles Xavier, Head Boy and Hogwarts Champion, is well-known for his charming manner and polite customs. This year, however, the eighteen-year-old throws that all aside, to prove himself in the dangerous Triwizard Tournament_ –

 

Headache aside, Charles feels a twinge of satisfaction as he correctly predicts how her Quick-Quotes Quill interprets his words, right into the way that Charles wants her to write.

 

Frost asks the predictable questions, some things about his mother and the mansion and Charles maneuvers through the questions with relative ease, all with the beginnings of a migraine.

 

Charles emerges from the room a while later, nods to Maha as she heads in, and he feels rather confident as he heads back into the main room.

 

Erik eyes him from where he sits, tapping his wand idly on his knee, back ramrod straight. His Durmstrang robes have been abandoned today, in favor of a black turtleneck that clings to his chest, barely revealing the flash of two pale wrists. Charles sits down next to him, his knee accidentally brushing against Erik’s thigh, heart immediately leaping into his throat.

 

“Jesus,” Charles mutters, leaning back into his chair and drawing his knee back, reaching up with two fingers to massage his temple.

 

“Alright?” Erik asks, almost amusedly, and his voice is low so as not to disturb the three women – Braddock, Grey, and Munroe – conversing in the corner of the room. And with that single word, Charles completely forgets the promise that he’d made to himself to not speak to Erik more than necessary.

 

“She’s barbaric,” Charles shakes his head, palms rubbing against his robes as Erik leans in to hear, his head tilted downward so that Charles can see the sharp line of his jaw. Charles thinks he catches a whiff of cologne. “See, she carries around this thing – a Quick-Quotes Quill, if you will – so that she doesn’t have to physically write anything down. It’s self-writing, but obviously – ”

 

“Not verbatim,” Erik surmises, the edges of his mouth tilting slightly upwards. Something in Charles’ chest tightens in response.

 

Eventually, Maha returns to the classroom and Erik rises to leave. Charles tries not to react as he walks by. When the door slides shut, Maha floats delicately across the room, to where Madame Grey waits. Charles stands to walk over and speak to his own Headmistress.

 

When Erik finally returns, the photographer ushers the three competitors together, Charles and Erik in the back and Maha in front, camera snapping furiously all the while. The lights are bright and Charles smiles tightly, already tired. When the flash goes off, he blinks rapidly and his brain pounds in his skull; he isn’t sure if he actually feels Erik’s fingers, light on the small of his back, or if it’s his imagination. Either way, Charles’ stomach clenches and he has to force himself to remain still. Then, the photographer asks the headmistresses to join the trio, and they struggle to get everyone into the frame. Christ, Charles inwardly swears, as the photographer insists on getting Maha in front, but Frost keeps hurrying forward and dragging Charles into greater prominence. Erik, who Charles would think is used to this kind of thing, floats towards the back of the group, much to McCone’s chagrin. “Erik, my boy,” he booms, “Get a little closer.”

 

And through the entirety of the photoshoot, Charles swears he can feel the ghosting of Erik’s fingers on his back and he aches to lean back – play it off as a little stretch and verify the dancing of nails on his robes – but Frost watches him with a sharp eye. So Charles swallows down the knot in his throat, grits his teeth and smiles for the camera.

 

Finally, after they’ve managed to take a satisfactory amount of photos, Frost insists on individual shots of all the champions.

 

The session ends, finally, and Charles exits the room, clenching his teeth as he smiles at Braddock, thanks the photographer and shakes McCone’s hand. Maha’s still discussing something with Emma Frost when Charles slips from the room, careful not to disturb anyone in the chamber before leaving.

 

Evidently though, he isn’t careful enough, because, as he strides down the corridor, nursing a headache and an ache to sink into a plush armchair by a fire, he hears Erik’s heavy footsteps behind him. Charles spins around halfway down the hall, turning on his heels without preamble, almost runs into Erik in the process.

 

“Did you need something?”

 

“I remember Braddock mentioning about you extending courtesies to your guests,” Erik remarks, his expression still annoyingly cool, and Charles has to take a step back, puts some space between them. His head still pounds vigorously in his head and Charles has to blink to clear his vision. Erik watches him, his expression unreadable. Even after nearly an hour under the grueling lights, Erik still manages to look perfectly put together. It’s unfair, really.

 

“I think you can always just ask for courtesies, can’t you,” Charles counters, consciously smoothing out his wrinkled cardigan.

 

And once again, Erik _smiles_ , the corners of his mouth dragging upwards in one slow, seductive curve and Charles thinks of the million fans that swoon over Erik every day, of the way they give in so easily – _don’t give in_ , he tells himself.

 

“Care to show me around Hogwarts?” Erik asks, slow and smooth, casual as you please, and Charles laughs, sharp and loud. He shakes his head with affected humor.

 

“Maybe some other time, Erik,” Charles replies easily, thinking _competition, competition, competition_ all the while, turns around once more before he can make a fool of himself. He feels the weight of Erik’s gaze all the way down the hall.

 

As the days drag on, whenever Charles barricades himself behind a partition of textbooks and papers, Erik seems to always find him in the library, the Bulgarian Seeker quietly placing himself into Charles’ life. However, unlike the first day, Erik rarely speaks, save for a low greeting and equally low farewell, content to sit still, thumbing through Charles’ books as Charles works.

 

Quite honestly, Charles doesn’t know what to do with him, because all Erik does is, well, sit there, next to Charles, very quietly (unlike Raven) and without constant interjections about the quality of his work (Hank).

 

Erik doesn’t appear to be casting any Confundus Charms, doesn’t ask Charles questions about the increased efficacy of potions if brewed in copper cauldrons, doesn’t even read Charles’ _interesting_ books, for Christ’s sake; Erik picks up the boring ones, like sixth year Charms textbooks that Charles only has to review for his cumulative exit exams.

 

“What’s he like?” Hank asks once afternoon, because Hank is the only one who pops into the library and actually notices Charles, hidden behind Erik’s broad shoulders and tower of books.

 

“Hm?” Charles rouses himself from a state of half-consciousness, shifting upwards in his plush armchair. Hank sits at one of the desks near the fireplace, a little ways behind Charles, bent over a paper.

 

“Oh,” Hank pushes at his glasses as he turns around to look at Charles, “Sorry, I thought you were – ”

 

Waving a dismissive hand, Charles answers, “It’s fine. Who were you asking about?”

 

“Lehnsherr,” Hank repeats and Charles blinks.

 

“Oh,” Charles murmurs, eyes already sliding shut. “Rather like any other person.” He doesn’t have the energy to tell Hank about the way Erik holds Charles’ papers so gently, paper between forefinger and thumb as if not to wrinkle anything. Charles doesn’t tell Hank that, sometimes, Charles can just feel Erik’s gaze on him, but whenever Charles looks up, Erik’s eyes are cast downwards.

 

Hank mutters something but Charles has already fallen asleep.

 

-

 

Charles’ days slip by languidly, a comfortable haze of scribbling out essays, flipping through his old textbooks, and sitting in relative silence with Erik Lehnsherr –  his competitor, Charles forces himself to remember. After their first few exchanges though, Erik seems content to cease any attempts at conversation with Charles; the two of them share their sequestered table at the back of the library, away from prying eyes and paparazzi and scowling librarians.

 

Some days, Charles walks in to find Erik waiting for him; others, Charles will sit for hours with nothing but flickering candlelight as a companion, before Erik emerges from the shadows, murmuring a low greeting.

 

More often than not, however, even though Erik does not speak, his presence distracts Charles. The Seeker doesn’t fidget, doesn’t breathe loudly, doesn’t so much as shift once or twice over the course of three or four hours. No, it’s not Erik’s behavior that Charles finds distracting; it is the Durmstrang student’s presence that never seems to fail in capturing Charles’ attention. As Erik slides into the vacant chair across from Charles, his very figure demands Charles’ gaze, his casual attire always clinging to his sculpted chest, his gaze intense. The way that Erik carries himself, decides Charles, is the thing that commands Charles’ attention the most, though. For someone who supposedly spends their time avoiding attention and the paparazzi, Erik Lehnsherr’s body is an invitation, every line of his limbs and every flex of his muscles calling for Charles’ eyes.

 

Attractive? Perhaps, Charles grudgingly admits to himself, lost in his thoughts one morning in the library, his fingers brushing idly against the edge of his Astronomy chart. And yet, Charles’ thoughts drift to that first conversation, the night that Erik had asked him, why why why, Charles was – is – so careful in making sure that none of his charm was ever directed towards Erik.

 

Why indeed, Charles thinks, seeing as he’s never thought of Maha as competition. On the contrary, in fact, Charles had approached Maha with delight, wanted to bombard the Beauxbatons girl with questions about France and her academic classes and the Beauxbatons castle. He’d taken Headmistress Braddock’s words to heart, attempting to improve interschool relations as often as possible, extending courtesies to their foreign guests.

 

And yet, Erik’s curiosity was – is – well-founded; why, amongst the entirety of the foreign students living on Hogwarts grounds, is Erik Lehnsherr the only individual not to have been on the receiving end of Charles’ gallantry? Cocky, confident, self-assured Erik Lehnsherr, who perpetually wears a cool, knowing expression, who perpetually has a hoard of fans following his every move.

 

Charles thinks that he knows the answer, thinks – _knows_ – that there is a gnawing knot nestled somewhere in his ribcage, but Charles is too afraid to look; from what he dares to recognize, the edges of this, this _problem_ are tinged with jealousy and rivalry and, most dangerous and most prevalent of them all, desire.

 

Charles quickly brushes the thought from his head. Erik Lehnsherr has plenty of Hogwarts students willing to extend him courtesies, niceties, all of that. Erik could ask any of his fanclub to show him around Hogwarts, Charles reasons, turning back to his Astronomy chart, ignoring the aforementioned Durmstrang student sitting less than a foot away from him. Well, Charles tries to ignore him, at least.

 

-

 

Later that week, as he leaves his Care of Magical Creatures class, Charles is discussing a particularly interesting Alchemy technique with Helen Cho when the professor calls him back.

 

“Xavier,” he grunts roughly, and Charles turns around after exchanging farewells with Helen.

 

“Hello, Professor Howlett,” Charles says and Logan rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that shit, Xavier.”

 

Charles grins, and as the students head back inside, Charles amends, “Hello, Logan.” He reminisces fondly upon the first time he’d ever met the gamekeeper, before blinking back into the present. “Something the matter?”

 

“Yeah,” Logan mutters, and Charles smiles fondly, charmed by his way with words. “Meet me here, tonight. Midnight. Use a Disillusionment charm.”

 

“Logan?” Charles’ eyebrows furrow and the man waves his hand. Around them, the students are already far away, heading towards the castle. Smoke, thick and dense, curls out from Logan’s hut.

 

“You heard me, Xavier. Now go on, get to class.”

 

Curiosity piqued, Charles reluctantly leaves the older man, pulling his robes closing around himself as he heads back to the castle.

 

Charles mentions this to Hank and Raven casually, over their lunch, and Raven’s eyes go comically wide.

 

“What do you think it is?” she leans in, and then hisses, “Do you think – ” she looks around dramatically before whispering, “ – it’s about the first task?”

 

Charles shrugs. Around them, the Great Hall fills with the pleasant clinking of silverware and a soft hum of chattering from students, the sounds reverberating through the grand hall, off its high, vaulted ceiling, and back down again.

 

“I guess we’ll find out. Pass me the salt, please.” Charles says pleasantly, his thoughts miles away.

 

Raven rolls her eyes, mutters something about anti-climatic brothers and Hank pats her shoulder.

 

“I think my brother’s coming back,” announces Alex grimly, as he and Darwin stride towards their table.

 

“Scott?” Charles asks, pausing in the liberal dispersal of salt onto his eggs to look up at the Gryffindor. “That’s wonderful!”

 

Alex grimaces and Hank frowns. “From Ethiopia? I thought he was studying in the – ”

 

“He was,” Alex says curtly. “Apparently, he’s coming back for the hols.”

 

Raven offers him a sympathetic look and Hank starts to ask Alex about Scott’s interactions with the East African wildlife when Darwin shoots him a glare.

 

Charles pats Alex companionably on the back as Darwin and Alex sit, the latter complaining loudly about his brother.

 

After lunch, Charles finds Erik waiting in the library for him, perusing what appears to be a Muggle play. Through the window, gray light seeps in, shrouding their table in silvery shadows.

 

“I never thought you were the Shakespeare type,” Charles muses as he slides into his seat, can’t help from voicing his thoughts. Normally, they sit in silence but today, Charles can’t help but ask.

 

“It’s for Literature Studies,” Erik murmurs, eyes flickering over the page.

 

“At Durmstrang?” Charles can’t help but lean in eagerly. He’d been wondering about Durmstrang curriculum long enough, wants to ask Erik about his classes and his workload when Erik looks up, glancing at Charles’ book bag.

 

“Do you play?” Erik points a finger at where Charles has a copy of _Wizard’s Chess Through Time_ by Marcus Salehyan.

 

Charles looks up. “Do you?”

 

The smile that he gets in return dries his mouth.

 

“There’s a set in the library,” Charles blurts out, and quickly after, he amends, “If you wanted to play, that is.” _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he berates himself internally, hopes that Erik will decline politely, continue to study quietly, as they have for the past week or so.

 

“If that’s what you’d like,” Erik says mildly, already turning back to his play. An air of nonchalance hangs around him like armor.

 

“Well,” Charles feels his palms tightening into fists, “I didn’t want to impose. I’m sure you’d rather study, obviously, because this is a library, so – ”

 

Erik looks up again, “White or black?”

 

The library’s chess set is old, slightly worn around the edges, and Charles’ king grumbles about Hogwarts students never letting him rest.

 

“Friendly, aren’t you,” Charles can’t resist a smile directed at the pieces as he nudges them towards their places. His knight shakes its ivory mane in response, neighing softly.

 

“Literature Studies isn’t mandatory,” Erik muses, as Charles says, “Knight to F3.”

 

“An elective course,” Charles looks up. “I didn’t really expect – ”

 

“The Seeker to be able to read?” Erik raises an eyebrow, doesn’t glance at Charles when he directs a pawn to B5.

 

“You to enjoy antiquity classes,” Charles corrects him swiftly. “I, for one, prefer exploratory courses. Potions, Alchemy, the like.” Charles waves a hand. “Pawn to H4.”

 

“History is important,” Erik offers, brief and succinct. Charles thinks that this is the longest conversation they’ve had.

 

“As is innovation,” Charles counters, looks up. Erik frowns in concentration, his lips slightly parted, one finger brushing against the edge of the table. Charles clears his throat. “It’s important to look to the future.”

 

“And yet,” says Erik, “Here we are. In between both the past and the future.”

 

Charles concedes with the tip of his head, lips pursing. He’s looking at his chess pieces – his knight as it shakes its mane impatiently, his queen as she scratches her chin, looking up at Charles dubiously. Then Charles opens his mouth, words halfway formed in his mouth: _what do you want from me, why are you here, why me, why why why_. Then Charles’ king shifts in his ivory seat, adjusting his heavy crown as he croaks, “Get a move on, Head Boy.”

 

Charles clamps his mouth shut, takes Erik’s bishop.

 

And for the rest of the evening, Charles can’t bring himself to think of Erik anything other than a rather fine chess player indeed.

 

-

 

As Charles casts the Disillusionment charm that night, he shivers at the familiar sensation of eggs dripping down his spine.

 

He pads through Hogwarts’ candlelit corridors slowly, avoiding all contact with any professors, alive or not, still wandering the halls, thanks to three years of patrolling as a prefect.

 

The sky is still and gentle outside, stars twinkling innocently as he strides to the gamekeeper’s hut, right at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and suddenly, Charles’ olfactory senses flood with overwhelming cologne.

 

“Jesus, Logan,” Charles hisses, as he walks up to the man, and Charles almost forgets about his Disillusionment charm until Logan glares at a spot a little to his left. “Is that cologne?”

 

The man’s nose twitches.

 

“Just a moment,” he mutters, lips barely moving and Charles’ jaw snaps shut as he sees a tall woman strolling across the grounds, her silky robes fluttering delicately around her heels.

 

Something akin to amusement grows in Charles’ stomach as he sees the way Logan’s shoulders tense as Jean Grey approaches, the way his chin tilts up slightly, muscles flexing.

 

“This way, Madame Grey,” Logan murmurs, obviously forgetting all about Charles, who fights a puff of exasperation as the trio heads into the forest.

 

A chill tugs at Charles’ skin, a cool zephyr dancing over Charles’ skin, swirling patterns of goosebumps on his arms and neck.

 

They pace quickly, Jean and Logan murmuring to each other in front, Charles quiet and a little ways behind them.

 

No matter how many times Charles enters the forest, he still feels a shiver of fear trickling down his throat each time he enters, and this time is no different, perhaps even more so than others, because of the purpose and anticipation that hangs in the air.

 

“Just a bit further,” Logan directs to Jean, and Charles has to stride to keep up with them.

 

Overhead, the moon disappears behind the bushy tops of the looming trees, thatchy and tangled. Around them, the bark of the forest is dark and matte, even underneath bits and flashes of moonlight. Underfoot, a layer of decomposed leaves and bark, moist from the rains, masks their footfalls.

 

Time seems to fluctuate in the Forbidden Forest, speeding up and slowing down, the odd hooting of a far-off owl and the flickering moonlight adding to the eerie aura of the place.

 

Charles is watching his feet, careful not to trip over any gnarled roots, so he doesn’t know why Madame Grey lets out such a fearful gasp some time later.

 

When he looks up, however, Charles realizes that Grey’s fears are assured.

 

“Nundus,” Logan growls, from where the trio stands behind a bit of undergrowth, just far enough to make out the silhouette of three looming creatures, prowling without a word within large steel cages.

 

“Straight from the savannahs of Ethiopia,” a fourth voice agrees, and Charles sees Scott Summers making his way through the undergrowth, to stand next to Logan. “Normally their breaths are potent enough to kill people who so much as breathe it in, but they got these bastards as cubs and cut out the glands that produce the stuff.”

 

“Scott,” Logan nods.

 

“I feel bad for Charles,” Scott shakes his head, “Mom wouldn’t shut up about the Tournament after she read Frost’s article.”

 

Logan shudders and Charles watches with his mouth wide open as the creatures, who look like leopards the size of elephants, pace back and forth within their enormous metal confines.

 

Even from this far, Charles’ stomach plummets as he sees their vicious mouths, curled up to reveal giant fangs, big as Charles’ fist. There are the silhouettes of several wizards, shouting to each other, swarming the cages, shooting green flashes of light at the leopard-like creatures. In the moonlight, the metal of the steel cages glints dangerously, like knives reflecting phosphorescence.

 

Charles bites down on his tongue to keep from making any noise.

 

“I reckon when they breathe, though, you’ll still get knocked out if you come too close,” Scott mutters, and Grey’s eyes narrow.

 

“Their pelts must be impenetrable, then,” Grey murmurs, her eyes narrowed as both she, Scott, and Charles watch the caretakers attempt to Stun the beasts, over and over, using the brute force of the spell to move the animals this way and that, but not necessarily attempting to Stun the Nundus. Logan’s eyes remain fixed upon Madame Grey.

 

One of the creatures snarls, and Charles thinks of Raven’s old cat.

 

“Mostly,” Scott says, turning to look at Grey with a glint in his eyes, “Tough things, those pelts. Almost like dragon scales, really.”

 

And Madame Grey murmurs her agreement, stepping closer to the steel cages. Logan shifts, his gaze flicking between Scott and Grey.

 

“Is she supposed to be here?” Scott murmurs to Logan, as the two men watch Grey approach the clearing that holds the three enormous cages. “Logan, you know – ”

 

“It’s nothing, Summers,” Logan growls in response and the younger man wisely closes his mouth, turning away.

 

Without a doubt, Charles knows Maha will know of these savage beasts before the end of the night. Charles turns around after that, trusting that Logan won’t miss him, what with the three Nundus, Scott, and Madame Grey to occupy him, begins to head back to the castle.

 

Charles’ mind whirls as he strides across the stretch of grass between the Forbidden Forest and the castle, pulling his robes tighter around himself absent-mindedly as the wind picks up. The lights of the castle flicker enticingly, turrets lit with buttery candles, stone facade large and homely. However, Charles barely has time to glance in front of him, his mind preoccupied.

 

Immediately, his first thought is saturated with gratitude; obviously, the shock is over now, and Charles has enough to research on, throw himself into the texts and writings about exotic animals from East Africa. Secondly, Charles’ mind begins to mix into images of double helixes, DNA, permutations and recombinations, chiasmata and chromosome crossovers –

 

 _Nundu_ , he thinks to himself, carefully slipping back into the castle and diligently avoiding Peeves, who loves to haunt the fifth-floor corridor with the portrait of Mehmed the Conqueror. Charles struggles to push down a wave of nervousness.

 

Other than a few murmurs from sleepy portraits, the castle is oddly somnolent, bereft of eager students and stern professors. It feels empty, Charles’ footfalls echoing down the vacant corridors and back, but strangely peaceful as well, in sharp contrast to the nearly violent cacophony of thoughts in Charles’ head.

 

Before he knows it, Charles is climbing the familiar steps up to the Ravenclaw tower, murmuring a quiet answer to the eagle knocker and slipping inside.

 

The familiar silver draperies of the Ravenclaw common room rise up out of the darkness to meet Charles as he pushes back into his dormitory. It feels as though there are hands clawing at his insides, kneading his viscera as Charles shoves aside a replica – he thinks – of a tapestry from King Louis XIV, the silver wings of angels and their beautiful satin clothing shimmering in the soft candlelight.

 

“Nundu,” Charles repeats viciously under his breath, “Jesus Christ.”

 

Ravenclaw’s hidden library waits behind the tapestries, behind the material that seems to be woven with silver and gold as it shimmers, and Charles all but lunges forward, surging into the cool room and raising his lit wand, murmuring to himself as he runs his fingers over the spines of the clean books, “Rouisse, Rysdam, Sabados, _Scamander_.”

 

Charles tugs at the thin book, flips it open eagerly. “Newt Scamander, you are a lifesaver,” Charles mutters, flips through the book quickly. He doesn’t leave the library until much later that night – or rather, the next morning.

 

-

 

“Charles,” Hank frowns at him when Charles finally emerges from the dormitory, padding through the door that leads into the common room. “What time did you go to sleep last night?”

 

“The question you should be asking, my friend,” counters Charles smoothly, “Is how much did I get done last night? Because the answer to that question is much more conducive to a positive conversation this early in the morning.”

 

Darwin rolls his eyes, holds out a cup of coffee.

 

“For me?” Charles raises his eyebrows. As Charles slurps at his coffee, Darwin looks pointedly at him. “You slept long enough for us to go for breakfast, twice.”

 

“Good man,” Charles claps Darwin on the shoulder, heads out of the common room and leaves Darwin and Hank gaping in his wake.

 

He descends the Ravenclaw tower, two stairs at a time, greets every fellow Ravenclaw that strides by with a cheery smile, striding out of the castle, down to the lake, where a group of students – Charles can’t tell if they’re Beauxbatons or Durmstrang or Hogwarts – have congregated, milling about the cool lake. As enticing as the lake’s serene surface is, Charles pushes his gaze forward, around the edges of the lake, scanning for a gaggle of fans wrapped up in their Bulgarian scarves.

 

Charles can’t help but snort as he strides down to the edge of the lake, waving as he passes a group of boys that call out to him. Charles pushes past the throng of Erik Lehnsherr’s admirers to catch up to the Seeker himself, who jogs slowly around the edge of the lake, his cotton shirt and sweatpants clinging to his body.

 

Charles knows that, with himself informed of the first task, and after Logan had revealed to Madame Grey the presence of the Nundu, the only champion that remains ignorant is –

 

“Erik,” Charles calls, tugs on his cardigan and swallows down his pride as he strides up to the famous Seeker. Erik turns, jogging slowly. The knot in Charles’ gut tightens.

 

Charles asks innocently, “Will you sign my poster?” as Erik slows to accommodate Charles’ pace, perfectly aware that the eyes of everyone in earshot rests upon their conversation.

 

Erik lets out a derisive snort and, slows down to a walk, and Charles says, “Really, you mustn’t knock it, I hear they sell for thirty Galleons.”

 

Erik glances over his shoulder and the group of girls giggles, their cheeks pink in the cold of the morning.

 

“Mind taking a walk with me?” Charles says, voice lower, jerks his head towards the furthest edge of the lake and tries to convey urgency in his eyes. As Erik begins to nod slowly, Charles drags his gaze from the bead of sweat that pools at the dip of Erik’s throat, the way his thin cotton shirt reveals the shape of his clavicles –

 

Charles turns around, hands in his pockets to smile widely at the girls. “Sorry, ladies, can I steal him for a moment?”

 

One of the girls laughs, her brown hair falling in her face. She says, winking, “Sure, Charles. Just be sure to bring him back,” and the knot in Charles’ chest tightens into one solid mess consisting of the following: the tattered remains of Charles’ pride, hints of nervous anxiety, and a splash of jealousy-cum-desire. Charles ignores it.

 

“Excellent,” Charles turns back to Erik, tugs him along, away from prying eyes and curious ears. Belatedly, he realizes that this is the first time Charles has sought out Erik of his own volition.

 

And God, the girls really did have a nice view, Charles admits to himself, as Erik’s long strides eventually lengthen and Charles falls behind the Durmstrang student.

 

 “You wanted to speak to me?” prompts Erik and Charles jerks his head up.

 

“The first task,” Charles remembers, extends one hand out to snag at Erik’s sleeve and Erik turns more abruptly than Charles anticipates, so that Erik ends up standing close, very very close. Suddenly, Charles’ sentence dies on his lips, his entire mouth parching, his entire throat shriveling and for all of the charisma that his professors claim he has, Charles thinks that any wit – any charm he’s ever had – withers now, burning up underneath Erik’s scorching gaze.

 

“I – ” Charles starts, and his gaze, without his consent, catches on Erik’s mouth.

 

“Charles?” prompts Erik, and Charles watches, transfixed, as those lips form his name.

 

Clearing his throat, Charles releases his grip on Erik’s sleeve, stepping back and blinking rapidly.

 

“Nundu,” says Charles, “Have you heard of it?”

 

Erik frowns, creasing his forehead, and Charles has to look away from where the dull sunlight illuminates Erik’s eyelashes, rendering them almost translucent. “The leopard. What does it have to do with the first task?”

 

“They _are_ the first task,” Charles insists. “We have to defeat them somehow, I assume, but – ”

 

“What?”

 

“Nundus; they’ve got three, one for each of us, and we have to get past them somehow.”

 

“Charles,” Erik says, “We’re not supposed to know,” and he steps around, right in Charles’ space so that Charles looks up reflexively, meeting his gaze.

 

“That was clever,” Charles raises his eyebrows, a smirk tugging on his lips.

 

“Charles,” Erik repeats again, more firmly, “How did you find out?”

 

“Logan – that is, Professor Howlett. He teaches Care of – ”

 

“I know,” interjects Erik, “But why? Why did he tell you?”

 

“We’re friends,” Charles says.

 

“Friends,” repeats Erik, and it’s hard to believe that they’re here, really; Charles has found Erik, tugged him away from earshot, and initiated a conversation with the Durmstrang student when before, Charles could barely concentrate as Erik sat next to him in the library.

 

“Look, Erik,” Charles enunciates, “They brought them in, alright? They shipped them into the Forbidden Forest; Nundus in giant steel cages, and we have to – ” Charles huffs, “Get around them, destroy them, I don’t know. The point is,” Charles grabs Erik’s sleeve once more as the latter tries to turn away. “ _Erik,_ the point is that Maha knows already, I’m sure of it, and so – ”

 

“You took it upon yourself to tell me,” Erik finishes his sentence for him. “Even though I’m your competition.”

 

“You’re the one who always finds me studying, what am I supposed to think of that?” Charles retaliates. “And, by the way, why _do_ you always come into the library? What do you want from me?”

 

Erik counters, “Do you want me to stop?” and Charles splutters indignantly.

 

“It’s besides the point,” Erik sighs, and it looks as though he’s refraining from rolling his eyes. In the back of Charles’ head, a low voice agrees. Charles ignores it. “Did it seem as though I needed help? Is that why you’re telling me?” Erik brings them back to the topic with a hint of suspicion in his voice.

 

“No,” Charles yanks back, shocked, “No, of course not, Erik.”

 

“Then why,” Erik asks, his countenance inscrutable, “Why are you telling me?”

 

Charles feels his jaw twitch, and he deliberates for a moment.

 

“It’s just fair,” he says finally, and Erik’s eyes narrow. “I wouldn’t let anyone face those monsters unprepared.” Charles purses his lips, “We all know now, and we’re all on even-footing.” He shrugs, “Besides, a secret’s only fun if you share, right?”

 

Erik looks at him for a moment more, and then Erik’s face shifts somehow, loosens slightly, and Charles exhales shakily, feels as though he’s passed some sort of test.

 

When Erik finally turns away, Charles finally recognizes the emotion written across his features: gratitude.

 

In a not unaffected voice, Erik says, “What do you know about the Nundu?”

 

Charles can’t help a small smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 


	4. The First Task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a quote in here by Maggie Stiefvater: "This was not a rattlesnake hidden in the grass, but a deadly coral snake striped with warning colors. Everything about him was a warning: If this snake bit you, you had no one to blame but yourself."

The sky is cloudy, gray, and serene as Charles and Erik make their way back around the water’s edge. A cloud of silence hangs over them, save for the occasional scuffing sound as Charles kicks his shoes against the rocks.

 

A throng of admirers who have wandered out from the castle to enjoy the last few days of autumn by the lakeside calls out to both Charles and Erik.

 

“I think they’re trying to get your attention,” Erik murmurs, and Charles tugs his cardigan tighter around himself, scoffing.

 

“You’re the internationally recognized Quidditch player,” Charles dismisses the notion easily; they’re still far away enough from the crowd to not be overheard.

 

Erik turns to him, his gaze searing. “I think you’re more charming than you think,” Erik replies contemplatively, and he comes to a halt where the lake water meets the pebbles of the shore.

 

“Don’t tell anyone,” Charles jokes, “They’ll never take my marks seriously when they realize.” As Charles’ smile fades, he thinks of the first night they’d spoken; Charles had pushed away Erik so vehemently, unwilling to fall prey to his charm. And yet, now, as they stand barely two feet away from each other, Charles was the one to ask Erik to play chess, the one to seek him out and speak this afternoon.

 

Charles clears his throat, eyes dropping.

 

For a moment, Charles lets his gaze linger appreciatively on the sharp edges of Erik’s body: his striking cheekbones and defined jaw, the way his clothes hug his chiseled chest and abdomen. And then Erik turns, his expression thoughtful as he walks up to Charles.

 

“Thank you,” Erik says, clasps Charles’ shoulder and his skin is warm to the touch, even with the air cold around them. “For telling me.”

 

“See you around, Erik,” Charles calls after him.

 

Warmth still lingers in Charles’ gut when he heads towards a group of dark trees near the edge of the lake closest to the castle, where Raven and Hank congregate in the shade.

 

“What was that all about?” Raven calls, and if Charles didn’t know better, he’d say her eyes flash with jealousy. “When did you get all cozy with Erik Lehnsherr, Charles?”

 

But he does know better, so he settles in next to them, knees rumpling underneath him as he sits on the grass by the cluster of trees. Charles glances to his right; Erik’s admirers have followed him toward the castle, and the other students – both from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang as well as Hogwarts – have migrated closer to the water, where a few students adventurous enough to dip their toes in the lake have slipped out of their shoes and socks.

 

“We’re not _cozy_ ,” Charles is quick to correct, “We were just discussing some things – ”

 

“Discussing what?” asks Raven, then proceeds to continue talking without waiting for an answer. “You’re lucky Sean wasn’t here,” she grins mischievously, “He would’ve been screaming if he saw you actually _talking_ to Lehnsherr.”

 

“Maybe Lehnsherr’s just trying to make friends,” Hank offers, not even looking up from his papers.

 

Raven snorts. “That sounds more like you, Charles. What did you say that time? Oh, _interschool relations_ ,” she mocks, nudging his shoulder.

 

“I did,” Charles defends himself, “It seems like a waste to let the opportunity to learn about international Wizarding schools slip away, really.” Charles opens his mouth to mention to Hank the use of Veela hair in wands when Raven interrupts him.

 

“So why aren’t you kissing his ass right now?” she counters. “I think he’s the only one you haven’t tried to charm so far.”

 

“Erik Lehnsherr doesn’t need my friendship,” Charles shifts, his back brushing against the tree behind him, “He has plenty of people who’d drool if he so much as looked at them.” Charles ignores the knot in his chest.

 

The murky lake water laps against the pebbles of the shore and Hank’s quill scratches his parchment as he scribbles down some notes. A light breeze shifts the leaves of the tree overhead.

 

“Honestly, I’m not quite sure what he wants from me,” Charles admits a moment later, his eyes cast past the lake, to the hills far off at the edge of the school grounds.

 

“What did you want from him?” Raven asks, jerking her head in the direction of the lake. “Just now, then.”

 

Charles glances around them. When he sees no one, he murmurs, “Logan showed me what the first task was last night,” lips barely moving and Hank and Raven scoot forward to hear.

 

Quickly, he explains to them the Nundus, with their poisonous breaths and surgically removed glands. Raven gasps. “That’s barbaric!” she hisses, and Charles lets a wry grin come across his face.

 

“I think I’ve got them sorted out,” Charles says, turning back to face the lake. “Maha already knows about the Nundus,” Charles shrugs, “It only seemed right that Erik know as well. That way, we’d all be on even ground.”

 

Raven snorts.

 

“No really,” Charles insists, “It didn’t seem fair.”

 

“So the Nundus,” Hank speaks before Raven can object, “Do you know what you’ll do?”

 

“Well,” admits Charles, “We’ve discussed their weaknesses; trivial things, really; I’m not exactly sure what Erik’ll do, but,” Charles taps his head, “I’ve got a few ideas. Oh,” Charles remembers, “And it was Scott. Alex’s brother, who brought them to the forest.”

 

Hank opens his mouth to say something about researching exotic creatures in Ethiopia, probably, but Raven talks over him.

 

“What’s Erik like,” Raven leans in earnestly.

 

“Quiet,” Charles admits, “More than I expected. After we talked a few times, he started coming to the library, and,” Charles pauses, “He doesn’t really say anything. I suspect he’s rather humble,” he thinks of the way Erik had let Maha and Charles scoot in front of the group while they were taking photos.

 

“If you get an autograph,” Raven tells Charles, “Then Sean will forget about that time you docked twenty points from Hufflepuff.”

 

Charles frowns. “I did?”

 

“He hung Alex’s underwear on the Quidditch posts before that big game between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff,” Hank supplies helpfully.

 

And Raven laughs loudly enough to capture the attention of a few students, who glance curiously at the Hogwarts Champion and his companions.

 

Hank soon joins in, his deep rumbles of laughter joining Raven’s clear peals and Charles sighs happily, leaning back against the tree behind him, closes his eyes and lets the sound of mirth wash over him.

 

-

 

“Queen to D6,” Charles says finally, lifting his chin from where it has rested on Charles’ steepled hands for the past ten minutes. His queen snoozes indelicately, chin drooping on her chest. Charles clears his throat. “Queen to D6,” he tries again, prodding her with the tip of his pinky finger.

 

“Maybe if you hadn’t taken so long she would’ve been awake,” grumbles one of his knights and Charles sighs good-naturedly.

 

“I’m going, I’m going,” grumbles the ivory queen, and Charles sits back, watching Erik run one finger along his jaw.

 

Charles’ Transfigurations notes have been abandoned in favor of a few rounds of chess, his papers pushed carelessly aside in a messy pile. Through the window, the last amber rays of sunshine soak their chessboard, casting long shadows over their somnolent pieces. Erik’s Durmstrang robes have been shrugged off some time between their first and second game, tossed haphazardly onto the empty chair beside Erik. Charles worries his bottom lip between his teeth, glances up and sees Erik studying the board.

 

Even in the cool air of the library, Erik seems comfortable wearing only his cotton shirt. Charles wonders how cold Durmstrang is.

 

“What’s Durmstrang like?” Charles suddenly has to ask, the words falling out of his mouth. Erik blinks, twice, and Charles’ voice is raspy, seeing as he hasn’t spoken a word for the past few hours. For a moment, Erik looks slightly bemused, until Charles clarifies, “I’ve never been that far north before.” Charles shrugs, looking back down to the chessboard, not really expecting an answer. He knows that, if he were in Erik’s position, he wouldn’t bother replying.

 

Erik moves a knight, then sits back. Charles doesn’t have to look up to know that Erik is watching him.

 

“The castle,” Erik begins slowly, “Is smaller than Hogwarts.”

 

Charles is about to bite his tongue and say never mind, but Erik continues.

 

“There’s only four floors,” Erik says, and Charles pretends to watch his rook. “And it’s not nearly as comfortable as it is here; it gets rather cold in the winter, since we only light fires for magical purposes.” Erik sits up a little straighter; Charles hears the quiet rasp of his trousers against the chair.

 

“But outside, it’s beautiful,” continues Erik, voice thoughtful. “There’s a fjord close by the castle, so in the summer, we fly on our brooms, over the mountains and lakes and into the fjord.”

 

Charles drops all pretenses of pretending to study the chessboard, looks up to see Erik turned towards the window. The sun gives Erik’s skin a slight glow, and his thin cotton shirt hugs his chest, the neck revealing just a hint of collarbones. Erik’s gaze is distant, but he raises a hand to make a small, swooping gesture with his palm and fingers.

 

“We fly very close to the water and we fly close to the cliffs.” With one slender finger, Erik traces the letter U into the air, still looking into the distance through the window, “The sides of the fjord are sloped, so as you fly down, you have to be careful not to hit the water.”

 

Their chess pieces have begun to shift around quietly, muttering amongst themselves but Charles pays them no attention.

 

Instead, he lets out a soft snort of amusement. “Wronski Feint,” he says, before he can stop himself, and Erik chuckles. Charles’ stomach drops when Erik looks at him.

 

Erik says, “That’s how we practice, actually,” smiling, and turns back to the window. Charles exhales silently. “If you can’t pull up fast enough, you crash into the water.”

 

“Have you?”

 

“Never,” Erik says, still smiling softly and then his hands are outstretched, as he describes the snowy grounds surrounding Durmstrang, his fingers outlining the tips of jagged mountains in the air, his palms mimicking the rolling valleys and Charles watches, transfixed, as Erik speaks; his entire body works in tandem – his mellifluous voice and accent, his dancing hands and his open expression – to convey the harsh beauty of winter in Scandinavia.

 

“That sounds beautiful,” Charles says, without an ounce of sarcasm. He thinks that this is the most he’s ever heard Erik say at once. “And in the summer?”

 

“The summer is my favorite time of the year,” Erik admits, and he watches Charles pushing up the sleeves of his robes from where they pool around his wrists, “When we fly in the fjord, the cliffs are green with grass, sometimes white or purple with flowers, and the water is blue, just like the sky.” Erik purses his lips, and his gaze is oddly distant. “The tops of the mountains are always white with snow, though, no matter how warm it gets.”

 

Charles prods his dozing bishop, moves it up three spaces. “Perhaps I can visit someday,” Charles says absent-mindedly, doesn’t really mean it.

 

Erik says in retaliation, “Knight to D6,” and Charles watches mournfully as Erik takes his queen.

 

“King to F1.”

 

A few moves later, Erik’s bishop groans plaintively when Charles’ rook unceremoniously shoves it to the side. Charles’ queen cackles with glee as she watches from the sidelines, closer to Charles’ Transfigurations notes than the actual chess board.

 

“I used to roam the school a lot,” Charles feels obligated to say, after Erik moves a pawn; Erik looks out the library’s arched window once more, as he waits for Charles to make a move. The ivory king scratches his nose.

 

“Used to,” echoes Erik.

 

“My fourth and fifth year here I would spend every weekend trying to explore the castle,” Charles scans the chessboard, “Every week was a different floor, but  there was always something new each time, something I hadn’t noticed before – a painting or an alcove or a statue.” Charles purses his lips in concentration. “And in my sixth year, I’d roam the grounds, go right up to the boundaries – there were magical shields preventing me from going any further, of course – but I’d just walk along the protective shields.”

 

Erik remains silent as Charles moves his knight back to the spot it was in one move before.

 

“I would run my hand along the shield,” Charles chuckles, “Because I liked the feel of it. It reminded me that I was – I was safe here, and – ” Charles shakes his head, remembering the soft feel of the magic pulsing warm underneath his fingers, reaching out to his touch.

 

“And now?” Erik asks, shifting in his seat. His eyes are fixed on Charles’ king.

 

“Now,” Charles sighs, waving a hand around them, “I’m in here. Studying.”

 

“Is that why you won’t take me on a tour around Hogwarts?”

 

Almost automatically, Charles begins to protest indignantly, a flimsy excuse ready on the tip of his tongue, when he looks up. He realizes that Erik’s eyes are glinting with mirth, and, Christ, Erik is _teasing_ him –

 

Charles’ jaw nearly drops. “Um,” Charles tries to say, attempting to decide whether Erik is serious underneath his playful tone or not, when Erik says, “Bishop to F1.”

 

“Really?” groans Charles’ king as the bishop shoves him aside. Charles grimaces.

 

“Want to try again?” Erik asks, clearly not expecting an answer to his previous question. Erik’s face is still open and bright, and Charles can’t bring himself to say no to another game.

 

-

 

A few days later, Charles wakes to the sound of his fellow Ravenclaws arguing.

 

“Don’t wake him, you idiots! He needs his rest!”

 

“Shut it, McCoy, he’s going to be late if he doesn’t wake up!”

 

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” Charles mumbles, blinking rapidly, holds one hand up to block the sunlight that filters into his dormitory. “What’s going on?”

 

“Finally!” a short boy – Christopher, Charles thinks – “Get up, Xavier! You’ll be late for the first task!”

 

“Hm,” Charles sits upright slowly. “Is that today?”

 

Hank lets out a growl of frustration and Charles chuckles. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Hank, I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

Around him, the other seventh year Ravenclaw boys are hustling around in the bathroom, chattering animatedly.

 

“Are you nervous?” Hank pulls him aside to ask, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

 

Charles refuses to acknowledge the fluttering in his stomach. Instead, he smiles. “I’m prepared, Hank, isn’t that enough?”

 

Hank sighs before clapping Charles on the shoulder.

 

Eventually, he strides through the common room with Hank and Darwin by his side, eliciting a loud cheer from every Ravenclaw sitting in the common room. And Charles smiles happily, genuinely grateful for his supportive House.

 

“Don’t start cheering yet,” Charles laughs easily, hugs a few other seventh years before heading down. “I haven’t done anything!”

 

The group of them linger for a little more, and then Charles gives them all his farewells, “See you all down by the forest!” before strolling down with Hank and Darwin.

 

He’s eating cutting his eggs enthusiastically, while simultaneously laughing at one of Hank’s witty remarks, when someone taps on his shoulder.

 

Charles turns, smiling all the while, “Professor Quested, what can I do for you?”

 

The solemn professor beckons with one finger, and Charles tosses down the knife, grins easily over his shoulder, “See you all later,” and as Charles stands up, Raven suddenly darts up to stand next to him, grabs him and tugs him closer because, for all of his bravado, she sees past it; she yanks roughly on his elbow, her lips brushing against his ear and she hisses, “ _Concentrate_.”

 

Concentrate. Charles repeats the word to himself as he follows Quested out of the Great Hall, through the main entrance of Hogwarts Castle and down to the Forbidden Forest, around the edges until they come across an enormous tent, thick burlap material holding up against the wind.

 

Charles notices that a clearing of sorts has been created – Charles can infer from a pile of fallen trees by the edge of the forest – as he follows Quested into the tent. He feels his palms moisten with sweat and wipes them on his robes.

 

As he follows Quested, the professor leads him to the tent, holding one flap of the tent up so Charles can duck underneath. Time seems to behave in a very peculiar fashion, rushing past so that the next time Charles blinks, he’s standing next to Headmistress Braddock. Charles thinks he feels Professor Quested’s hand clasping his shoulder for a moment, but he can’t be sure.

 

Underfoot, the detritus and undergrowth of the Forbidden Forest have been cleared, leaving a layer of tightly packed dirt as the floor of the tent. Maha sits on a bench in a corner of the enormous tent, her gaze steadily fixed on a patch of dirt in front of her, staring so intently Charles has to look away. Erik paces up and down the length of the tent.

 

“Ah, Xavier,” McCone greets him. “Come on in.” The Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation looks the most normal out of everyone in the tent, his familiar pallid face impassive as ever.

 

“Well, now that we’re all here, it’s time to fill you in,” McCone begins and the champions and their headmistresses form a semicircle around McCone. “Your task is to _collect the golden egg_ ,” McCone waves a hand towards the back end of the tent, “From whatever lies in the stadium. You won’t have a time limit, necessarily, but the quicker you collect the egg, the more points you’ll be awarded.”

 

Charles glances around. Erik nods once to show some sign of understanding and Maha simply narrows her eyes. At the same time, Charles can hear a lively stream of students and spectators passing the tent, talking animatedly and laughing and joking. Charles swallows.

 

Hardly a moment passes later – or so it seems to Charles – when McCone straightens up.

 

“Let’s see,” McCone starts, “Xavier first,” he says, and something swoops in Charles’ stomach, “Then our Durmstrang champion, and then we will end with Ms. Abdelaziz.

 

“Xavier,” McCone straightens, “You’re on in ten.” And with that, McCone leaves, and Charles’ gut solidifies into something that resembles nervousness. The whole thing feels rather abrupt, as McCone leaves in a rush, and Charles attempts to cough, but it seems as though something is stuck in his throat.

 

The three Headmistresses murmur some words of encouragement before heading out of the tent, to find their places in the crowd at the judges’ table.

 

“Maha?” someone calls from the other side of the tent, but the Beauxbatons champion remains seated. She mutters something that sounds like French under her breath, and Charles sits down next to her, looking down at his hands.

 

“At least you get to go first,” Maha offers, although she sounds a bit worried.

 

“I suppose,” Charles says, rubbing his palms on his robes, “Although I suspect it has its downfalls as well.” Charles is about to add something else when Erik takes a seat right next to him. Even though there’s enough room for the three of them to sit comfortably on the bench, Erik’s thigh presses against Charles’ leg, and Charles’ mouth hangs half-open for a moment as he is momentarily distracted.

 

“Maha?” the voice calls again, and Maha gives the other two champions a half-grimace, half-smile before rising.

 

Charles clears his throat, glances at Erik to ask, “You alright?”

 

Erik lets out a low chuckle and Charles feels the hair on the back of his neck quiver at the low sound. “Are you?”

 

Charles turns to face his companion. Erik’s mouth forms a half-smirk, his eyes shining with mirth. “What are you on about?” Charles means to ask but it comes across more teasing than anything.

 

Erik’s smile widens and Charles can’t tear his gaze away, can’t stop looking at Erik when the other boy finally replies, “I finally changed your mind.”

 

Erik exhales, clasps a warm hand companionably on Charles’ knee and for a second, Charles looks at him, almost forgets why he’s here. Erik’s gaze burns, his palm – and God, it’s enormous; it covers Charles’ entire kneecap – lingering for a second more on Charles before Erik straightens.

 

“Good luck out there, Charles.”

 

And then Erik is gone, disappearing into the enormous tent.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Charles says softly.

 

The whistle blows and Charles stands – _concentrate_ , he tells himself – brushes invisible dirt off of his robes, shoulders his way out of the tent.

 

It feels surreal as he steps into the stadium, which is illuminated by a thousand flickering lights, as if Charles has stepped into a very vivid, highly colored dream.

 

The stadium is huge, enormous, and the audience screams; their faces shine bright like pennies, even in the shade of the Forbidden Forest, mouths open in sync, in a cacophony. Overhead, the canvas of the material covering the stadium appears to be colored white, reflected the bright lights back to the crowd and back to Charles. The stadium encompasses the entirety of all three schools, their seats behind what looks like an invisible barrier, designed to protect them –

 

_Concentrate._

 

The bright lights overhead flood the stadium with artificial light, white and sharp, and Charles feels himself turning away from the stadium. Charles turns away from the stadium, and brushes away the roar of the crowd and, in his mind, it dies down to little more than a whisper in the back of Charles’ mind as he sees the Nundu, impossibly large, perhaps even larger than an elephant, crouching in the corner of the rocky floor that has been constructed in place of the Forbidden Forest’s floor.

 

And even as Charles sets his gaze on the beast for the second time, he still feels a shiver of fear run down his spine.

 

The Nundu crouches, haunches tensed and enormous claws outstretched, sharp against the rock, turned away, facing the screaming crowd. She lashes her tail without a sound, and Charles spies the golden egg resting on the other side of her flank.

 

As Charles places one foot inside the tent, the Nundu whirls around without even a whisper of noise, her eyes flicking, and in slow motion, Charles sees her face twist into something painful and fierce, lips curling to reveal those glinting fangs, and Charles grips his wand tighter, stares into her cold eyes and sees –

 

Nothing.

 

He sees emptiness and this – more than the gleaming fur coat, the gargantuan claws, and grotesque fangs – this is the thing that forces Charles to inhale suddenly.

 

_Concentrate_.

 

It feels as though the world slows, as the powerful muscles in the Nundu tighten, then ripple as she prepares to pounce, and Charles murmurs a quiet stunning spell, “ _Stupefy_ ,” right below the beast’s navel, exactly at where Charles has calculated her center of gravity to be, and then another _stupefy_ , three spells shot in quick succession, just like he’d seen in the forest just a few nights before, pushing the Nundu back, keeping Charles away from her breath.

 

He sees the brilliant light streaming from his wand, then remembers to duck behind the rock adjacent to him, his heart hammering in his chest, blood rushing through his veins with sudden exhilaration. The edges of Charles’ vision blur. His robes are tight over his skin. He feels the heat of the Nundu’s breath – _potent enough to kill,_ Scott had said – as she coughs in surprise, her warm breath splitting around the rock that Charles hides behind like a current of water splitting around a river stone.

 

_Christ almighty_ , Charles thinks.

 

And the world speeds up once more.

 

A second later, Charles feels the reverberating thud as her paws hit the floor, the scrape of her claws as she clutches the rock underneath her iron grip.

 

With a grunt, Charles pushes himself around the rock, his face furrowed with intensity – _concentrate_ – and Charles feels his lungs expand then contract.

 

The Nundu’s eyes are narrowed in slits, thin as the edge of a knife, shaking her enormous head and her thick neck as the last reverberations of the stunning spell ripple through her muscles.

 

Time slows once more as Charles raises his wand –

 

– and the Nundu straightens up, her nostrils flaring, lip curling  –

 

_Concentrate_.

 

Charles flicks his wand at the same time, yells, “ _Incendio!_ ” just as the Nundu drops her jaw to snarl, and Charles’ spell shoots straight into the maw of the beast, the smell of burning flesh – of fire hitting diseases and death – filling the stadium as the sparks fly straight into the Nundu’s gullet.

 

The crowd roars and Charles blinks, his hearing returning suddenly, time crashing down around him, destroying any semblance of normality as Charles stands there for an unbelievable long moment, half-leaning on the rock for support, before he realizes, _I did it._

 

“And our Hogwarts Champion has done it! He’s destroyed the Nundu using nothing more than second year spells! Can you believe it?” someone comments loudly and all Charles can think is, _I did it._

 

Abruptly, Charles’ hearing returns, and for the first time since he’d left the burlap tent, Charles becomes cognizant of how loud the crowd actually is, screaming and applauding as loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup –

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Charles sees a group of keepers striding out from a hidden entrance, rushing towards the motionless shape of the Nundu on the floor –

 

Charles strides across the rocky terrain, his legs wobbling slightly, blinking back the smoke as he grabs the golden egg – _I did it_ – lets a triumphant smile break across his face as the crowd screams.

 

The world blurs around him as Charles pants, the egg unbelievably heavy underneath his arm. He blinks and then suddenly a worried-looking Mediwitch appears in front of him, ushering him through an exit on the right side of the stadium, into another, white tent. His heart still palpitates in his heart, fluttering in his ribcage, and Charles’ skin feels too tight for his body.

 

_I did it,_ Charles realizes, repeating the sentence to himself over and over in his head, like gripping a foreign object blindly, attempting to discern what it is by touching it repeatedly. He recognizes that there’s a swarm of people around him – Professor Quested, a group of Healers – but can’t find enough energy inside himself to care.

 

He blinks as he enters the white tent, which is dark on the inside, in comparison to the blinding lights of the stadium. He staggers in, feet dragging clumsily. His blood still roars in his ears, and he realizes that a thin sheen of sweat coats his body, causing his robes to stick uncomfortably to his skin.

 

As soon as Charles spies the cot with his name engraved at the foot, Charles dumps the egg onto the white sheets. “Can I watch?” he rasps to the Mediwitch, and she tuts. “I haven’t gotten anything more than a scratch,” Charles holds up his hands in surrender, breathing heavily, and all of the sudden, he feels very tired. “I just want to watch.”

 

The witch bristles but finally relents, grabs her wand and starts siphoning the ashes from Charles’ skin as he stands in the flap of the tent, holding the white material up to peer through the exit of the stadium as the crowd erupts into cheers.

 

“Aaaaaaaaand, _Lehnsherr_!”

 

Charles’ head pounds inside his skull but he pays it no mind. Instead, he turns his attention on the second champion.

 

_I finally changed your mind_ , Erik had said, and as Charles reflects upon his words, he realizes with a jolt, that Erik is right. For all of the time they’ve spent together, Charles realizes that Erik has quietly inserted himself into Charles’ life, not with charm or with fame, but with persistence and an old chess set.

 

Charles clears his throat.

 

Erik steps into the ring with all of the intensity that he’d possessed during the World Cup. He wears his brown Durmstrang uniform like a second skin, leather belt cinching around his waist and his dark boots nearly black against the pale stone of the enclosure.

 

A second Nundu prowls forward, her scapula bulging against the sleek fur covering her shoulders, eyes narrowed into slits, mouth curled into a snarl that is pure vitriol. The distinctive markings on her pelt seem impossibly dark underneath the bright, artificial lights of the stadium.

 

McCone sits at the judges’ table, their seats raised and draped in gold. He holds his wand to his throat, his voice booming throughout the stadium but Charles can’t bring himself to pay attention to the man.

 

Erik still stands right in front of the first entrance, barely two steps inside the stadium, but he commands the attention of the entire audience, his dark clothes thrown into sharp relief against the white stone floor.

 

The muscles in the Nundu’s body ripple in tandem as her gaze latches onto Erik, mouth curving into a deadly snarl, and Charles allows a shiver of fear to ripple down his spine.

 

“What will our champion do?” Charles thinks McCone booms, but he doesn’t really care; he watches, rapt, as the Nundu pounces, forelegs lunging into the air, hind legs propelling her across the stadium – “ _Erik_!” the crowd screams in sync.

 

And Charles watches, spellbound, as Erik deliberates, time stretching a moment into what feels like an hour, his body tensed –

 

“My boy!” booms McCone, and that could be a thread of worry lacing through the commentator’s voice –

 

But Charles thinks that Erik is not a rattlesnake hidden in the grass. No, Erik’s posture, his gaze, his entire body is a threat. Aposematism, Charles thinks, not Batesian mimicry. Erik is a deadly coral snake, every inch of him striped with warning colors, and no one save for Charles seems to recognize Erik’s motionlessness as the most dangerous portent of them all.

 

Erik is a predator, waiting to strike, biding his time as the Nundu leaps across the rocky terrain and then, so quick that Charles almost misses it, Erik flicks his wand, an almost casual motion –

 

Thick chains of metal, links upon links shoot out of the tip of his black walnut wood wand; the dark wand in his hand looks like a stick in comparison to the huge girth of the metal chains, as they snake up through the air, and Charles holds his breath as Erik flicks his wrist once more. The chains, huge and dark, shoot across the stadium in less than a second.

 

Erik’s ruggedly handsome face furrows with concentration, and Charles almost forgets to breathe. Every ounce of his body is pure strength, Charles thinks, pure muscle, working in symphony to channel an impossible amount of ruthless force.

 

The chains head straight for the snarling Nundu, who’s already leaping across the terrain towards Erik, but the chains halt her in mid-stride, wrapping viciously around her muscles and this? This is sheer _power_ , brute strength versus brute strength, and the witch who tends to Charles’ wound gasps, her gauze falling onto the floor. Charles’ own jaw drops.

 

Erik’s face tightens and the Nundu _screeches_ , her forelimbs pinned to her spotted torso as the chains wrap her body, quick as lightning, metal and magic around flesh and bone, tightening and tightening; and the metal never stops coming, never stops streaming from Erik’s wand in ribbons; it wraps around her spine and her belly, coming up to her thick neck and snapping her vicious snarl shut, dark and matte metal juxtaposed against sleek pelt; every muscle in Erik’s body tenses and Charles can almost feel the power radiating from him, the concentration rolling off of him in waves as he continues to tighten his grip around the Nundu –

 

The beast hangs in the balance for a long moment, her hind legs still poised on the rock, mid-stride, metal chains holding her poised in place –

 

And then she falls.

 

After an impossibly long moment, she falls, her yellow eyes wide with both disbelief and anger, muscles still flexing and fighting vainly against her metal constraints; there is an unmistakable amount of power here, Charles realizes, between both the enormous Nundu and Erik’s magic, two forces so different – steel and chains of magic against the claws and fangs of an apex predator – and yet both so dangerous.

 

And Erik is merciless. He twists his wrist once more and there’s an obscene squelching sound; Charles swings his head to look away. And then, “And he’s done it, folks! Lehnsherr has got the egg! Just a few minutes over than what Xavier took, but nonetheless, an _impressive_ display of strength from the young man – ”

 

McCone’s voice fades as Charles ducks back into the tent, still replaying the image of Erik in his head – Erik with one arm outstretched, pointing his wand with intensity –

 

The Mediwitch tending to Charles mumbles something about finding more gauze under her breath, and she stalks out of the tent, her fallen bandages strewn along the floor by the entrance of the tent still.

 

Charles exhales shakily. He glances around the empty tent. His ears are still ringing.

 

Even in the darkness of the tent, however, Charles can make out a cot on the other side that has Erik’s name engraved on a metal plaque at the foot of it. Charles sits on the cot with Erik’s name on it. He realizes a moment later that his hands are still trembling with adrenaline, very faintly, then sticks them between his thighs so he doesn’t have to look at them.

 

The tent is very quiet.

 

There must be a silencing charm placed around the tent because Charles can’t hear the crowd outside. He doesn’t hear it when Erik pushes aside the thick flap covering the entrance to the tent either, but the light that falls into the tent from the stadium jerks Charles’ gaze up.

 

“That was amazing,” Charles says, looking up when Erik steps into the tent, without a hint of sarcasm.

 

Erik pants, sweat curling down his cheek. He frowns, points at the cot with his wand. “That’s mine.” His clothes cling to his skin and abruptly, the tent feels smaller.

 

“I think it’s nicer than mine,” Charles admits, pats the spot next to him. “Although, I rather think that’s because the person who conjures these things is probably a Bulgarian fan.”

 

Erik exhales shakily, and sits next to Charles on the cot. The tent’s entrance hasn’t fully closed all the way; there’s a sliver of light that leaks in from the stadium from where Erik hasn’t fully shut the flap. Charles can hear the crowd now, as McCone announces something with his magically amplified voice, the students yelling excitedly simultaneously.

 

“How did you know?” Erik rasps, looking down at his hands.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“That it – it would open its mouth to snarl; you shot the spell right before it opened its mouth, so how did you – ”

 

“Our Beauxbatons Champion!” announces McCone, and the crowd goes wild.

 

“See those?” Charles leans in, closer to Erik than he should, points at the dark stains surrounding the rocky terrain. “Those are urine markings.”

 

Erik frowns, and as he leans in, the coils of the mattress creak. The two of them look through the flap of the tent, and Charles catches the scent of faint cologne, clean sweat, and metal. Even as they sit on the cot, Erik’s torso is longer than Charles, so when Charles leans back to point through the flap, he thinks he feels the billow of air from Erik’s breath hot against the nape of his neck.

 

“So?”

 

“The Nundu descends from felines, Erik,” Charles feels his voice rising in excitement, “And felines evolved from their miacoid ancestors more than ten million years ago – ten _million years_ , Erik.”

 

Erik looks at him. “So?” he repeats.

 

“That’s ten million years of instinct, ten million years of evolution that have kept them alive.” Charles points to where the third Nundu snarls at Maha. “Hissing, urinary markings, and the contraction of the pupils are all signs of an aggressive or agitated feline – and so is snarling.” Charles waves a hand. “It’s all evolutionary, it’s hard-wired into her brain – Christ, it’s probably coded in her DNA – to snarl, every time she faces a predator because – ”

 

“That’s what she does in East Africa,” Erik interjects. Charles turns his head slightly to the right to catch a glimpse of Erik. Erik’s eyes are distant as he watches Maha attempt to stun the Nundu again and again, effectively pushing the animal back, further away. A bead of sweat trails down the pale column of Erik’s throat.  “To scare off any other Nundus trying to invade her territory.”

 

“Oh!” McCone says, voice magically amplified, “And Ms. Abdelaziz displays a _very_ impressive knowledge of the Nundu!”

 

“Well, yes,” Charles says. He shifts slightly; Erik’s flank brushes against his hip. Charles squeezes his own knee to keep from jerking back reflexively.

 

“Incredible,” Erik murmurs, still watching the Nundu. “But I thought phylogeny wasn’t studied at Hogwarts.”

 

“Self-studies,” Charles explains, and he winces as Maha ducks behind a large boulder to escape the Nundu’s breath.

 

“Using its own instinct against it. I never would’ve thought of that,” Erik finally turns to Charles. “Well done.”

 

“You didn’t need to think of it,” Charles answers. When they’re this close, Charles has to tilt his head back a bit to look Erik in the eye. “You had all the strength you needed without resorting to anything else.”

 

Erik opens his mouth to speak when a flash of light interrupts them.

 

“Wonderful,” Emma Frost smiles, her photographer hovering by her side, his camera held out in front of him.

 

McCone hollers, “And she’s got it! Our Beauxbatons Champions has got the egg!”

 

“Just in time, too, I think,” Frost winks. “Time for the three champions to take a photo, right?”

 

Fortunately not, as the Mediwitch scurries in and ushers Frost away, much to the reporter’s annoyance. Nevertheless, Charles looks away from Erik, strolls up to congratulate Maha as she limps out of the stadium.

 

He loses Erik in the flurry of things. Braddock rushes out to congratulate Charles, Munroe to Erik, and Grey to Maha.

 

Someone wipes the grime and sweat off his face as he’s crowded by a stream of yelling students – he catches glimpses of Hank, Sean, Moira, and Darwin – as he’s pushed back to the castle in a triumphant stream of Hogwarts banners, clutching the egg on his shoulder all the way.

 

The night blurs into one long celebration, as two Slytherins carry Charles into the kitchens after a Hufflepuff tinkles the giant pear, and Charles manages to yell, “As Head Boy, I must say that you’re aren’t all supposed to know about this!” much to the amusement of the hollering crowd.

 

Someone pulls out butterbeer, and if Charles had thought their celebration was animated the time his name was pulled from the goblet, this is absolutely nothing in comparison.

 

In the kitchens, Charles can see what looks like the entirety of both the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff houses, most of Slytherin and some of Gryffindor, packed into the kitchens, bellowing about eggs and geniuses and just bellowing in general. Charles can’t even imagine the mess outside the corridor, but then refuses to even begin to; he quashes down the Head Boy side of himself and downs another Firewhiskey, much to the amazement of his present company, proceeds to celebrate the rest of the night away.

 

The house elves are nowhere in sight for the remainder of the night, presumably scurried away to hide from the boisterous students as they pile into the kitchens. What a mess, Charles thinks happily to himself, as a crowd of seventh years breaks open another crate of Firewhiskey.

 

Raven is shoving an egg custard in her mouth while a nearby group of third years chants in unison. Hank is standing on a table, waving his wand about in one hand and a pint of butterbeer in the other. “Genetics!” he imitates, over exaggerating his hand motions, “Fire! DNA!”

 

Charles, from where he’s nestled in between two Ravenclaws as they dig into some treacle tart, has to protest. “I do not speak anything like that!”

 

From the next room over, Charles can hear a high-pitched scream and the crashes of pots and pans.

 

“That’s Sean, I bet,” Angel snorts, sauntering over to the three Ravenclaws huddled around the counter. “I think Alex and Darwin brought in a broomstick.”

 

Charles laughs loudly, although he can barely hear himself over the chanting of “Eighteen! Nineteen! Twenty!” as Raven eats three more custards.

 

“I reckon he’s imitating Erik Lehnsherr,” cackles the Ravenclaw to Charles’ left.

 

Some time passes; Charles isn’t sure how much or how little, only knows that there’re empty glasses scattered around his feet when he stands up to walk across the room later. Someone has put up some impressive banners of Charles waving animatedly at the Nundu.

 

“The egg!” a few Gryffindors throw scraps of paper dyed to look like confetti at Charles. “Open the egg!”

 

“What?” Charles slurs at them, grinning, “Now?”

 

Feminine laughter rings in Charles’ ears as someone hands him the egg. A small crowd begins to form around Charles and he laughs. “Who wants me to open it?” It takes a considerable amount of effort for Charles to lift the egg above his head, for the view of the crowd around him.

 

“On the table!” someone that sounds like Hank yells, and Charles obliges, stumbling a bit before someone shoves him onto a table.

 

“Who wants me to open it?” he repeats, and they all hoot; someone lets out a high-pitched scream as the sound of crashing metal wafts in from the other room.

 

Around the room, there are mountains of cakes and flagons of pumpkin juice and butterbeer on every surface; Alex has set off some Filibuster’s Fireworks, so that the air is thick with stars and sparks as Charles digs his fingernails into the groove that runs around the golden egg, prying it open.

 

A horrible screeching sound fills the kitchens for a moment, jolting everyone before Charles quickly shuts the egg.

 

“Jesus!” hollers a fourth year Slytherin, with her hands over her ears.

 

“Sounded like a banshee!” Darwin remarks, “Maybe you’ll have to get past one of those, Charles!”

 

“Or someone being tortured,” another girl pipes in.

 

“Want another egg custard?” Hank asks Raven and the party resumes with vigor as Raven consumes her twenty-first custard. Charles grins drunkenly.

 

It’s almost two in the morning when the Head Boy inside of Charles decides to rouse, and he blearily, half-heartedly chastises the lot of them. “Underage… drinking,” he slurs, and someone laughs warmly, helps him upstairs to the Ravenclaw common room.

 

Charles collapses in his bed, thoroughly wasted, and someone tucks the cold, golden egg under his shoulder. Charles remembers opening it, the horrible screeching –

 

He grunts, turns over and shoves the egg off the bed, trying to sidle into his sheets without moving. He thinks of the scores that the champions had received, big black letters floating in his brain: 7s, 8s, 9s, then promptly passes out before he can see ten.

 

-

 

When Charles wakes half a day later, he’s dangling precariously on his bed, half his body on and the other half drooping over the edge. He runs a hand through his head and frowns when his fingers find a bump at the back of his skull.

 

“Sorry,” someone says, and Charles looks up to see Hank grinning at him, upside down. “I think someone hit your head on the door when they carried you in,” and he doesn’t look very sorry at all.

 

“Watched with schadenfreude, did you, Hank?” Charles groans, righting himself so that the world straightens once more.

 

Hank laughs. Then he says, “I asked Professor Quested if it was okay that you skipped classes today, and the Professor said it was fine. That’s what I came in here to tell you before you rushed off to class.”

 

“He said,” Charles frowns, his brain still struggling to comprehend.

 

“Well, he nodded. You know how he is.”

 

“I missed class?” Charles sits upright.

 

“If Quested said it’s fine, it’s fine,” and he lets out a little puff of amusement. “Also, Moira’s waiting for you in the common room.”

 

“Moira,” Charles frowns.

 

“McTaggert,” calls Hank over his shoulder as he exits the room. “Darwin let her in.”

 

“Right,” Charles says to the empty room.

 

Moira’s Gryffindor scarf is bundled up all the way to her chin, her eyes raking over the Ravenclaw tapestries when Charles eventually clambers down to the common room.

 

“Hi Charles,” she says.

 

“Hello, Moira,” Charles says, sits down next to her.

 

Without further ado, Moira pulls out a newspaper clipping from within her robes, places it onto the table with a flourish, pushing it across the surface to Charles.

 

It’s a copy of the Daily Prophet, the newest edition, most likely, but instead of the whole paper, there’s just one article.

 

_All Three Champions_ _Successful_ , the headline reads, and Charles skims the article, turns the page. Towards the end of the second page, Charles spots a photo of himself and Erik. “Frost lost the photo, so whoever wrote this article got it, I guess,” she trails off. Charles looks at the photo again.

 

In it, Charles sees himself and Erik, sharing a cot in the medical tent, and Charles has a small smile spread across his face one that – to the untrained eye, or perhaps someone who doesn’t know Charles very well – looks a little weak in comparison to his normal ones, the big ones he does for the press, but both Moira and Charles know that this is a genuine smile, as Erik looks at Charles and Charles looks back, the two of them caught in their own world, elated in their success.

 

Charles thinks of their first conversation, when Charles had so vehemently pushed Erik away, _I’d be happy to try and change your mind_ , Erik had said in response. Charles swallows. It feels as though there’s a crater in his chest, a large wound, gaping and festering around the edges, as Charles thinks of their chess games, the long hours spent in the empty library. _I finally changed your mind_ , Erik had said, just yesterday, and Charles wonders when he began to let Erik in.

 

“No,” Charles says a moment later, looking up to see Moira raising a suggestive eyebrow. “It’s not like that.”

 

“You sure?” Moira says, tucking the ends of her scarf into her robes.

 

“Moira,” Charles sighs, “He’s an international Quidditch player, he has hundreds of people following him around constantly, and we were just – ”

 

“Improving interschool relations?” she supplies helpfully.

 

“Yes,” Charles nods with something akin to relief. “Exactly.”

 

Moira gives him a look.

 

“Oh come on,” he slumps back in his chair exasperatedly, “What could he possibly want from me?” But even as Charles speaks, his words don’t stop heat from pooling in his gut. “Besides, it’s his job to make friends with everybody. He practically does it for a living.”

 

“Were you even listening to Sean?” Moira raises a reproachful eyebrow, “The guy never even leaves his house!”

 

Charles waves a hand. “He has to be friendly with the fans, Moira, otherwise they’ll kick him off the team.”

 

“You’re not a fan.”

 

“No,” Charles scratches his head, “But still. We’ve all got images to maintain.”

 

Moira sighs. “I’ve got to get to class.”

 

“Good luck on your Charms exam,” Charles says absent-mindedly as the Gryffindor begins to rise. Charles moves to push the newspaper back across the table but Moira waves her hand to stop him. “Keep it.”

 

With a sigh, Charles heads back upstairs, into the dormitory, tucks the clipping under his mattress, almost tripping over the golden egg on the floor as he strolls to the bathroom, attempts to put himself together.

 

Egg-shaped bump on his head aside, Charles feels refreshed after his deep slumber, fully invigorated as he returns to class the next day.

 

The start of December brings wind and sleet to Hogwarts, and Charles has never been more grateful for the castle’s thick walls and roaring fires. Each time he passes the Durmstrang ship on the lake, which pitches in the high winds, black sails billowing against the cloudy skies, Charles suppresses a shiver. The Beauxbatons caravan seems chilly enough as well. Logan, Charles notices, keeps Madame Grey’s horses well provided with their preferred drink of single-malt whiskey; the fumes wafting from the trough in the corner of their paddock is enough to make most of the Care of Magical Creatures class light-headed.

 

In between class and talking to over-attentive Gryffindors and eating with Hank and Raven and them, Charles finds enough time to return to the library, to the small corner that he begins to mentally refer to as his own.

 

No less than a day later does Erik Lehnsherr follow, reserved and mysterious as he sits down across from Charles with little more than a hello.

 

However, even without words, Charles comes to a slamming realization about his new tablemate: Erik Lehnsherr is unlike anyone Charles has ever met before.

 

And Charles knows that he pretty much claimed the opposite to Hank a mere few weeks before, but as the days fly by, Charles wonders how someone like Erik can be so reserved, but simultaneously exude so much confidence; Charles is used to using his soft skills – his people skills, Raven calls it – on his teachers and other superiors, sometimes his classmates, but Charles has never dealt with someone like Erik before, someone who can go for hours without saying a thing, but as soon as Charles opens his mouth to explain a particularly intriguing genetics concept or something of the like, Erik understands without a single misconception, even finishes Charles’ sentences for him.

 

And, moreover, with just a few choice words and an offer of chess, Erik engenders the familiar, comforting feel of competition in Charles’ gut, low and hot and burning.

 

Erik, who knows just how to push Charles, how to worm his way into Charles’ life so easily that Charles hardly remembers ever resisting him at all, is unlike anyone Charles has ever met before. 

 

He’s studying a day or two after the first task, attempting to read his notes, when Erik clears his throat across from him, the first sound he’s made in hours. It’s a small noise, but when Charles looks up, Erik murmurs an apology, continues reading Darwin’s _Origin of Species_ – recommended by Charles, of course.

 

The sound doesn’t distract Charles, necessarily. No, Charles has been restless the whole afternoon, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and shuffling through his papers noisily. The library’s chess set rests with a few Slytherin students today, who’ve been camping out in the opposite corner of the library since last week, preparing for seventh year midterms.

 

Charles sighs for the umpteenth time that afternoon. The words on his paper blur in front of him, and belatedly, Charles realizes that he’s written the same sentence twice. “Damn,” he murmurs, under his breath, rubbing his eyes.

 

Erik looks up from his book, but one finger still rubs the corner of the page he’s on. “You alright?” he asks, though not very concernedly, as if he knows exactly what ails Charles.

 

Charles huffs, tossing his notes onto the table and leaning back in his seat.

 

Someone hushes them from the other side of a bookcase and Charles glares at the dividing shelf.

 

“Take a break,” advises Erik, looking down at his book again, and for some reason, Charles finds himself slightly irked by this motion.

 

Charles huffs once more, picking up his notes and sitting back up in his seat.

 

He’s read about half a page when he sighs again, as the words begin to muddle in his mind. Charles shifts listlessly, clearing his throat.

 

Erik slides a scrap piece of parchment into his book to mark his place and then closes it. “Come on,” he rises easily, as if he hasn’t been sitting in the same exact position for the last three hours.

 

“I have to study,” Charles answers primly, setting his feet on Erik’s vacant chair petulantly, even though he knows as well as Erik that productivity will be very limited if they stay.

 

“You’re not studying,” Erik says, raising his eyebrows at him, and Charles has to lean his head back to meet Erik’s eyes as the latter stands by Charles’ chair.

 

“Excuse me,” the owner of the voice from the other side of the book shelf sticks his head around the aforementioned barrier. Both Charles and Erik look away from each other to glance at him. “Could you please – oh.” A third year Ravenclaw boy blushes. “Sorry, Charles.” The third year glances at Erik, then back to Charles.

 

“Hi, Ryan,” Charles says.

 

“Sorry about that,” Erik speaks over the other boy, giving him a sharp look, “We were just leaving.”

 

And for a moment, the third year looks torn. “Oh,” he says.

 

“Bye Ryan,” Charles says, refusing to admit defeat as he snatches up his books and grabs his robes, striding out of the library with Erik following in his wake.

 

“Say nothing,” Charles directs to Erik as the two of them exit the library, pacing down the corridor.

 

“Wasn’t going to,” Erik replies easily, but his mouth is curled into half a smile.

 

They walk down the corridor, down to the Great Hall, when Charles realizes he doesn’t know where they’re going. The hesitancy must show in Charles’ face, because Erik says off-handedly, “I remember asking you for a tour, a few weeks ago.”

 

“Are you asking now?” Charles turns to look at Erik, and Charles feels his lips twitching. A few students meander past them but Charles pays them no mind.

 

Erik lifts a shoulder smoothly, expression open and expectant as he shrugs nonchalantly.

 

Charles deliberates for a moment, and something in the back of his mind reminds him, _play it cool, competition, don’t give in,_ but he brushes it away. Charles clears his throat, looking away from Erik, refuses to blush. “Well,” he answers, tucking his hands into his pockets and schooling his expression, “There’s a lot to see.”

 

Charles takes Erik across the Clock Tower courtyard, from the base of the Clock Tower across the wooden bridge, past the sundial garden and up the sprawling path to the Owlery, pointing out each one as snow begins to fall. They’ve reached an impasse of sorts, Charles decides. Charles has finally relented, but Erik seems content to simply walk with Charles, no conversation necessary.

 

Regardless, Charles finds something to talk about, idly discussing Veela hair in wands and the evolutionary advantages of talons and claws. Erik nods once or twice, adding a clever comment here and there, but for the most part, lets Charles ramble on about whatever catches his fancy. As they trek up the slippery slope to the Owlery, the chill kisses Charles’ skin, refreshingly cool and sharp after weeks spent in the castle.

 

“I’ve realized,” Charles pants, stuffs his hands further into his robes, “That in the midst of all my studying and ingratiating, I’ve missed the beauty of this school. It’s incredible, once you think about it, really. I mean, the grounds go on for what seems like forever, past the lake and up to Hogsmeade. You can spend a whole year exploring the grounds and still not see everything.” Charles breathes in deeply, then continues walking, ignores the snowflakes beginning to dance around them. “And not to mention the castle. Jesus, I can’t even imagine all the nooks and crannies and shortcuts and such.”

 

Erik lets out a noise of agreement.

 

Charles nods, shivering. “I’ve taken it for granted.”

 

They reach the Owlery and Charles jerks his head upwards, to indicate the stairs without taking his hands out of his pockets.

 

They ascend the stairs, one icy step at a time; Charles falls silent, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other.

 

As they reach the top of the Owlery, Erik lets out a soft noise of surprise.

 

“I know,” agrees Charles, leans against the stone wall to look across the grounds that sprawl below them.

 

From the top of the Owlery, Charles can see snow collecting on the roofed, wooden bridge that they’d crossed mere minutes ago, snow piling on the sundial in the garden, snow floating in front of the clock tower, snow around Hogwarts Castle, which looms tall and dark against the stark white, magnificent and grand.

 

“Right there,” Charles finds himself searching for an excuse to scoot closer to Erik, steps in to point to metal flagpoles in the distant, adjacent to the castle. “That’s our Quidditch field.”

 

Erik rumbles with laughter. “Perhaps you can take me there sometime in the spring.”

 

“So what?” Charles asks, “I can watch you fly around the field while I sit in the stands? You’re joking,” he laughs, but inwardly he thinks he could watch Erik fly all day. “And there,” Charles leans in even closer, enough to feel the warmth of Erik’s skin, underneath all of his layers, heat radiating from his chest, “That viaduct – there’s a stone bridge constructed right above it. You take that, go straight up, and you’ll go straight to Hogsmeade.”

 

“Is there anything you don’t know?” Erik asks. Their forearms are pressed together now, and the bones of Erik’s wrist brush gently against Charles’ left pinky.

 

Charles blurts out his answer before he can stop himself. “You.”

 

And inwardly, he winces – _stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he berates himself – but Erik chuckles without hesitation, one broad hand coming up to rest on Charles’ back, emanating heat and Charles looks away, hopes to God that Erik can’t see the flush staining his cheeks, or that if he does, Erik thinks that it’s from the cold, nipping at their skin.

 

“There’s plenty of time for that,” Erik says, removing his hand slowly, and Charles tries not to think of it as a promise.

 


	5. The Seeker's Advice

With his midterms approaching rapidly, Charles loses himself in his classes for the following week; he can barely spare a thought to the golden egg, let alone Erik. However, they still congregate in the library, Erik reading and Charles scribbling like a madman in his notes, though their chessboard sits to the side, untouched.

 

“There he is!” Darwin crows and Charles murmurs a quick apology as he slides into the empty seat between Raven and Hank, across from Sean, at breakfast the following Friday.

 

“Wake up in the library again?” Hank nudges Charles companionably.

 

“Not quite,” Charles grimaces, reaching for a slice of toast.

 

Hank nods sympathetically. Out of all of them, Hank is the one who sympathizes with Charles the most; while Hank studies for an entrance exam to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Charles prepares to apply for the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic.

 

As Charles settles in, Hank eagerly begins describing a series of experiments conducted at St. Mungo’s the previous month, and how he hopes to make it into the wizarding hospital before the trials conclude. 

 

Raven chatters with another Gryffindor girl who’s sitting with them, and Sean has half a boiled egg in his mouth, trying to simultaneously explain a complex Quidditch maneuver while devouring his breakfast, much to Charles and Hank’s amusement. When he thinks Sean isn’t looking, Alex feeds Sean’s tiny owl bits of egg.

 

“Take it easy, Sean,” Darwin chuckles, and his fork clinks as it scrapes against his plate.

 

However, at that moment, it seems as though Sean has completely ignored the rest of them, his eyes widening and his jaw dropping to reveal an unattractive mess of boiled egg.

 

“Sean,” Hank frowns.

 

Charles turns around.

 

“Hello, Charles,” says Erik.

 

 The Seeker stands behind Charles, hands tucked in his pockets, expression serene. Today Erik Lehnsherr has donned his Durmstrang robes, albeit very casually; his robes are undone to reveal a tight-fitting black shirt underneath. Charles catches the flash of a belt buckle before jerking his gaze upwards.

 

Charles settles for a rushed, “Hello.”

 

Behind him, Charles thinks he hears the clatter of Darwin’s fork falling onto his plate. Someone – Charles thinks it’s Sean – makes a whimpering noise.

 

“Erm,” Charles says, “Did you – ”

 

Erik says, “I wanted to talk to you.” His gaze flits behind Charles then back again.

 

“Oh.” Charles glances back to see Sean’s gaping expression, Darwin’s eyes as round as saucers. “Right.”

 

Hank clears his throat.

 

“It won’t be long,” Erik adds helpfully, his gaze focused and unwavering, and Charles spares a mournful glance at his toast before stepping away from the table.

 

“I’ll, um, be back soon,” Charles directs towards the rest of his shocked table, fighting down the urge to lick his lips.

 

Erik leads him out of the Great Hall, past a curious throng of Ravenclaws who cluster at the end of the corridor. Outside, the air is cooler than in the Great Hall. Erik’s robes billow around his ankles as he strides down the corridor, guiding Charles down the mostly empty hallway with one hand at the small of Charles’ back. Charles allows a delicious thrill to run through his spine.

 

“Listen,” Erik begins, and he stops by the cherub fountain tucked into an alcove, mostly hidden from the rest of the corridor. Charles thinks he looks a little hesitant. “I owe you a favor.”

 

“I – okay.” Charles frowns, and he tries to think of the last time they’d spoken outside of the library. Must’ve been more than a week ago, in the Owlery. “What for?”

 

“The Nundus,” Erik says, impatiently, his eyes darting out to glance at the corridor before back again. “Does your egg wail when you open it?”

 

Charles knows that Erik leans in so their conversation won’t be overheard, but that doesn’t stop the flutter in Charles’ stomach when Erik takes another step closer. Charles can’t help but notice the way that Erik’s hips tilt slightly to face Charles, his spine curved in a tantalizing arc so that Erik’s mouth hovers adjacent to Charles’ right ear.

 

“Yes,” says Charles, still a bit bewildered at the fact that Erik has brought their conversation to such a, well, public place. Not as crowded as the Great Hall, no doubt, but still in full sight of anyone who cares to look. Charles bites his lip, imagining how they must look to passersby: Erik, tall and lithe, leaning into Charles, who is tucked into the little recess; the Bulgarian Seeker and Hogwarts’ Head Boy.

 

“Although, I must say, if you keep standing that close, you’re going to start some rumors, Erik,” Charles adds without thinking, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, Charles’ eyes widen with shock. “I mean – ”

 

Charles’ mind grinds to a stuttering halt as Erik’s eyes darken and Charles quickly backtracks, “Not that you would ever, um,” Charles feels his cheeks flushing. “Of course, you wouldn’t,” he waves a vague hand between them. “The egg,” Charles clears his throat, and pointedly ignores the way Erik leans in closer.

 

“I know how to deal with the press,” Erik quirks his lips and Charles inwardly whimpers.

 

“The egg,” Charles repeats firmly. He thinks that Erik has probably practiced that half-smile for the paparazzi.

 

“Well,” Erik lowers his voice, head tilted a little to Charles’ right to watch the stream of incoming students. “Go for a swim, okay?”

 

“What?”

 

“Take the egg, go down to the lake, and just – just mull over it in there, alright?”

 

Charles stares at him.

 

“It’ll help,” Erik insists, a little louder as a pair of boisterous Beauxbatons boys parade past.

 

“The lake?” Charles can’t help but say incredulously. He has to tilt his head up slightly to meet Erik’s piercing gaze, and asks, “Are you insane? I’ll freeze to death.” He hesitates. “Unless you want that.”

 

Erik doesn’t even acknowledge that remark. “So then take it to your bath or something, just – it’ll help you think, alright?”

 

Raising one skeptical eyebrow, Charles says, “Are you serious?”

 

He takes one look at Erik’s expression and then sighs, “Alright. Fine. I’ll do it, okay?”

 

Erik lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders loosening. “Thank you.”

 

“Just,” Charles frowns, “How did you – ”

 

“Take the advice first,” Erik speaks over him quickly, as a group of wide-eyed first years comes close to the cherub fountain, “And ask me questions later.”

 

“Alright,” Charles says, a little dazed as the first years crowd around Erik, asking for autographs.

 

Charles’ head is still whirring when he strides back into the Great Hall, which is fuller than before, students laughing and shouting as more mail flies in.

 

“You good?” Raven asks as Charles comes back to the table.

 

“Charles!” Sean nearly shouts, as he catches sight of the Head Boy, “You didn’t tell us you were friends with Erik Lehnsherr!”

 

“I’m not really friends – ” Charles begins to let out a token protest, but Sean begins asking eagerly about posters and autographs.

 

“Shove off,” Raven says easily, and Sean lets out a yelp as she presumably kicks him under the table.

 

“Raven,” Charles frowns.

 

“You have Charms to get to,” she reminds Sean, “Ask about Lehnsherr later.”

 

Sean glares at Raven but rises nonetheless, muttering something about Charles and Quidditch and thirty galleons.

 

“You’re filling us in later,” Darwin says to Charles, giving him an amused look, and Charles grins in reply.

 

Angel and Alex have already gone, Charles notices, most likely to their classes, which leaves Raven and Hank, who lean in eagerly as the younger students leave.

 

“So?” Raven raises an eyebrow suggestively and Charles digs a fork into his sausage.

 

“The egg,” Charles says lowly, careful not to disturb the other students around them. “He told me to put it into water. Apparently it’s supposed to help me figure it out.”

 

“Why?” Raven leans in under the guise of snagging a pitcher of water.

 

Charles shrugs.

 

“That makes sense,” Hank murmurs under his breath, scribbling something onto his newspaper.

 

“You know, you’d better get Sean that autograph now,” Raven says cheerily, cutting her waffle.

 

“Honestly,” Charles grins, “I don’t see what the fuss is about him. He’s just a regular person – ”

 

“Who happens to be an international Quidditch star,” Raven finishes.

 

Charles sighs, admits after he sips at pumpkin juice, “Sometimes I have to remind myself that he is – ” Charles waves a hand, “You know, famous and all that. He doesn’t really act like it.”

 

“Finally getting around to those interschool relations?” remarks Hank and it sounds remarkably like an innuendo. Charles is about to reply when a large owl flies by, swooping precariously close to their table, momentarily distracting the three of them.

 

“He’s not too bad,” Charles says reluctantly, taking another swing from his goblet, “We’ve talked a bit, played some chess.” Charles shrugs.

 

“If Sean ever hears you say _not too bad_ when referring to Erik Lehnsherr,” Raven warns, “It’ll be your underwear on the Quidditch posts next time.”

 

Charles laughs.

 

“Guys,” Hank interrupts suddenly, looks up from his copy of the Daily Prophet. “Look at this.”

 

He slides the newspaper over to Hank and Raven.

 

“Oh no,” Charles says when he sees the author of the article Hank has opened the newspaper to. “I’d rather not read any of Frost’s work.”

 

“This woman,” Raven hisses, snatching up the article, “Is _vile_. Has she nothing better to do?” Raven waves the article viciously and Charles manages to see an image of Logan talking to Madame Grey.

 

“Don’t bother reading it,” Charles says to Hank. “Read something from the research column instead.”

 

And as Hank begins to read, Raven happily picks at her breakfast. Charles lets Hank’s voice lull him into tranquility; half of his mind listens to Hank speaking and the other half is content to appreciate the tastiness of his breakfast. 

 

The Great Hall is essentially empty by the time Hank finishes reading his third article; most of the students have headed to their classes. Only sixth and seventh years remain.

 

Raven rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “God, Hank, we get it. You like science.”

 

“I like it when Hank reads out loud,” Charles comments, brushing off his hands and starting to grab his bag.

 

“You’re the only one,” she laughs and as Charles stands, she adds quietly, “But will you do what Erik said? About the egg?”

 

Charles bites his lip, looks at her and says truthfully, “I was going to.”

 

-

 

After escaping from Sean’s insistent, eager supplications for an introduction and a signed poster, Charles slips out early from dinner to sneak upstairs and grab the golden egg. The corridors are empty and silent, seeing as everyone else is downstairs at dinner. After Charles passes the statue of Boris the Bewildered, he walks up to the door to the prefects’ bathroom and mutters, “Pine fresh.”

 

The bathroom is softly lit by an enormous candle-filled chandelier, light refracting off every white marble surface, including the giant swimming pool-sized tub carved out of the floor. A hundred golden taps line the rim of the gigantic bathtub, each gold handle inlaid with a vibrantly colored jewel. Charles pulls the one for hot water eagerly, shucking off his robes and tossing them to the side.

 

Soon, the deep pool fills nearly to the brim with steaming water. Charles turns on the tap that gushes ice-white foam, and the faint scent of mint fills the bathroom; he turns on another that releases pale blue bubbles that mix delightfully with the foam. For a few moments, Charles watches the bubbles. Then, he slides into the water, his toes barely touching the bottom of the tub. Charles can’t help the warm sigh that slips from his mouth. The water is warm and foamy and unbelievably comforting after a long day.

 

A thick layer of dense bubbles covers the surface of the steaming water, solid enough that Charles can’t make out the shape of his hands underneath the water. Charles pushes a few bubbles idly, thinking of the snowfall that often rains upon the castle now. Charles remembers the walk that he’d taken with Erik last week. The light snowfall had collected in tiny tufts in Erik’s eyelashes then, white flakes in his hair, and on his robes. Charles pushes a few more snow-white bubbles away with his hand.

 

It’s a compromise, concludes Charles. Erik always seeks Charles out but Charles always starts their conversations; they both want to know more about each other, learning about the competition, Charles supposes, but each one is only willing to go so far.

 

How far they’ve come, Charles realizes, from the very first time they spoke in front of the Goblet of Fire. Out of habit more than anything else, Charles wonders why Erik is trying to get in, underneath Charles’ masks and mirrors, wonders what he wants from Charles, but the thought is worn around the edges from Charles thinking it so often.

 

And how strange, how unique it is, to be able to see Erik with his easy-going manner, unhurried and casual as you please, in front of his plethora of admirers, but still see the focus and intent that is ever present in Erik’s gaze. And, when circumstances call for it, to see Erik’s thoughts narrow with such intensity, focused at the Snitch at the World Cup, the Nundu in the first task, Charles the time they’d put their names into the Goblet of Fire and, of course, a particularly convoluted play in their games of chess. Two ends of the spectrum, Charles decides. Two sides of the same coin.

 

In the beginning, Charles had thought that they were two predators encircling each other, and now they’ve come to a very cautious place indeed, with the two of them still dancing around each other now, learning about each other and sizing their competition up; Charles can feel it, sometimes, when Erik looks at him, really _looks_ at him with that unreserved curiosity. It’s new and it’s tentative and it’s _good_ , Charles thinks. He doesn’t know what it is, but something in Erik ignites the competition in Charles, whether it be in a simple game of chess or in the Triwizard Tournament. Erik makes him feel –

 

“Hi, Charles.”

 

Charles swallows a considerable amount of bubbles in shock. “Jesus _Christ_ , Sebastian!” He sits up, spluttering and spitting, and sees a very glum-looking ghost sitting on the floor near the tub. Reflexively, Charles reaches out and pulls some bubbles closer to him, although at this point, the foam is so thick it hardly matters. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I was bored, so I thought I’d pay you a visit.” Sebastian sighs, blinking at Charles with his translucent chin propped up on a fist. “You haven’t been to see me in _ages_.”

 

“Yes, well,” Charles trails off, bringing his knees closer to his chest, “I hardly enjoy the third floor bathrooms. They’re always flooded.”

 

“You didn’t care before,” Sebastian says miserably, picking at his robes in a morose sort of way, “You used to be in there all the time.”

 

This much is true, though only because Raven, Hank, and Charles needed _some_ place to brew a Polyjuice Potion in secret.

 

As much as Charles is disinterested in keeping company with maudlin, voyeuristic ghosts, Sebastian’s presence reminds him of the task at hand. With a flick of his wand, Charles floats his golden egg over to the tub. He opens it with wet fingers, and the same wailing, screeching sound fills the prefects’ bathroom, just as ugly and incomprehensible as before. Charles screws eyes together in discomfort, snaps the egg shut.

 

“I’d try putting it _in_ the water, if I were you,” Sebastian comments, sounding a little bored. “That’s what the handsome one, Erik, did.”

 

Charles frowns at the ghost. “And how do you know what he did?”

 

“Sometimes,” Sebastian sighs dramatically, “I’ll be sitting in the s-bend, thinking about death, when someone comes in a flushes the toilet.” He grimaces. “Anyway, I was minding my own business one day, when an insufferable third year flushed me all the way down to the lake.” Sebastian shakes his head, starting on about pipes and toilets but Charles is already dunking his head into the water.

 

The bubbles are thick in his throat by the time Charles has memorized a cryptic song about the lake, and he bursts out of the water, gasping for air.

 

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Charles gaps, “The second task requires us to go into the lake, with the merpeople,” Charles trails off, already thinking of gills and fish and water.

 

“ – and it was so _tactless_ of her!” Sebastian growls, still talking to himself, “Oh yes, it’s so very easy to forget that Sebastian’s dead,” the ghost looks at Charles, “Took them hours and hours to find my body, but I made sure she wouldn’t forget, no, I followed the fool around and reminded her, I did. I remember at – ”

 

But Charles is hardly listening, his thoughts racing: the lake, merpeople, Grindylows –

 

“ – and then, of course, she went to the Ministry of Magic, which was absolutely _idiotic_ ; she knew they hated me after that, so I had to come back here and live in my toilet.”

 

“Right,” Charles agrees vaguely. “Will you give me a moment? I’m getting out.”

 

Sebastian looks up at this, mouth flickering into a wicked smile, but Charles glares at him until the ghost covers his eyes.

 

Charles retrieves the egg from the bottom of the bath, drying himself off and tugging on his robes again.

 

“Will you come and visit me in my bathroom again sometime?” Sebastian asks mournfully as Charles slips on his shoes.

 

“Maybe if you quit flooding it,” Charles says, privately thinking that it’s rather odd that Braddock keeps the ghost of a convict in the castle. “Goodbye, Sebastian.”

 

“If you die down there,” Sebastian says gloomily as he zooms back up the tap, “You’re welcome to come back and share my toilet, Charles.”

 

-

 

The next morning, at breakfast, Charles feels oddly refreshed, his skin scrubbed clean from his bath the previous night. He’s laughing with a Slytherin at the breakfast table, making a joke at the expense of Darwin, who laughs uproariously beside him, when he sees Erik walking into the Great Hall, robes fluttering around him.

 

“Oh, hang on, boys, I’ve got to talk to Erik,” he manages to say before pushing out of his seat, and Sean calls out, “Can I come?”

 

Angel snorts and yanks Sean back into his seat as Charles walks down the hall, to where Erik starts to sit next to another Durmstrang girl.

 

However, Erik sees Charles approaching and, tactfully, strides around to the other side of the table, where the seats are emptier.

 

Charles plops down next to Erik, snagging a cup to pour himself some pumpkin juice. “Rather cold today, isn’t it?” he remarks conversationally. “Sorry, dear, mind if I speak to him for a moment more?” Charles directs to a girl who can’t be more than a third year, clutching a piece of paper and quill in her hand as she approaches Erik. “Thanks, love,” he says as she walks away. The smile drops off his face when he turns back to Erik.

 

“Erik, it’s freezing outside, they can’t possibly expect us to swim in the lake!” Charles hisses, barely more than a whisper. Erik shakes a bit of salt onto his eggs.

 

“Where else would we swim?” counters Erik. His lips barely move as he speaks.

 

Charles thinks of the throng of admirers standing on the edge of the lake to watch Erik dive in from the Durmstrang boat. Charles knows that Erik doesn’t like the attention, knows that he wouldn’t do it unless he absolutely had to.

 

“I’m going to get hypothermia,” Charles moans, putting his head in his hands.

 

“Lunch today,” Erik says, “At the lake.”

 

“What, will you teach me to swim?” Charles says into his plate mournfully. He looks up to see Erik gazing at him expectantly. “God, are you kidding? I’ll freeze to death.”

 

A pair of twins parade past their table, calling out in unison, “Hi Erik, Hi Charles,” as they walk by.

 

“You forget that I live in the north,” Erik remarks, and Charles almost forgets to turn around to wave half-heartedly at the twins. “I know how to stay in that lake for hours without getting cold.”

 

“I couldn’t possibly ask that of you,” Charles begins to protest, but the lineaments of Erik’s face are sincere.

 

“I owe you one,” Erik repeats simply.

 

“Hey Erik,” calls out a Beauxbatons boy as he approaches. “Hey, Charles,” he adds. “A few of us were going down to the Quidditch field tonight, wanna come?” the boy directs at Erik.

 

Erik looks up, distracted for a moment, and Charles can’t help but watch the way Erik’s mouth forms the words, “Sure, I’ll see you then.”

 

“You already told me about the egg,” Charles reminds him half-heartedly when Erik turns back to Charles.

 

Erik waves a hand dismissively. “You would’ve figured that out on your own.”

 

Charles hesitates for a moment, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips because, quite honestly, he’d be a fool to deny the offer. Besides, it’ll offer Charles some insight into Durmstrang customs. And a chance to improve interschool relations. Obviously.

 

Charles says, “Alright, then,” offers a slow nod to Erik before rising from the table, allowing Erik’s ever present throng of admirers to crowd him once more.

 

Charles heads to the seventh floor, to a small bay window where he knows Raven and Hank sometimes frequent. Today, he finds only Hank, curled up in the window seat, scribbling in his notebook. Charles takes a seat by Hank, tucking his feet underneath himself, and starts telling Hank about how the golden egg had sung in the prefect’s bathroom and Erik’s offer to show Charles how to resist the cold.

 

“That sounds fine,” Hank says, clearly glad to get his mind off other things, “But why is he helping you? Is it because you told him about the Nundu?”

 

Charles wrings his hands at this. “Partly, yes. But,” he pauses for a moment, unsure of how to translate into words the way that Erik touches the small of his back sometimes, the way that Erik’s eyes burn every time Charles feels them on his body. Charles sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t know why; he could be trying to make a fool of me and I’d never know.”

 

Hank shakes his head. “But you would know, Charles. You’re good with people, you can see those things.”

 

Charles laughs. “Sometimes, he’ll surprise me by saying exactly what I’m thinking, or I’ll laugh and he’ll look at me and I can tell – he just knows, just by looking at me, that I don’t mean it.” Charles shakes his head. “I’m probably making no sense now.”

 

Hank shakes his head. “No,” he concedes, “But you’re never been wrong about people before, Charles, so if you think that Erik wants to help, then he probably does.” Hank reaches out to tap Charles’ foot. “Don’t doubt yourself.”

 

Which is how Charles finds himself walking around the edge of the Black Lake later that day, each of his strides matching Erik’s, who walks beside him. Luckily, the skies are only gray today, and no snowflakes are falling from the sky.

 

Erik stops them at the edge of the water. Across the lake, past the shadowy outline of the Durmstrang ship, Charles can barely make out the line of trees at the other side. They stand now at the furthest edge of the lake from the school, at the base of smooth hills that encapsulate the school grounds. There’s no one around for at least a hundred yards.

 

Charles shivers a bit.

 

“Reminds me of Durmstrang,” Erik remarks, proceeding to tug off his robes.

 

Charles’ mouth dries. “Are we – are we going in now?”

 

“Were you waiting for something?” Erik counters, folds his robes up and tosses them onto the ground. As he rightens himself up, the material of his turtleneck underneath clings to his shapely chest. In the gray sunlight, Erik’s belt buckle shines.

 

“Well, I – ” Charles becomes distracted as Erik starts yanking off his pants, revealing the toned shape of his legs underneath. “I thought we’d go over the semantics of it, erm, clothed, before going in.”

 

“You’ll never learn that way,” Erik says, tugging at the back of his shirt, pulling his turtleneck over his head. Erik’s chest is unbelievably toned, his muscles flexing deliciously as he folds his turtleneck and plops them onto his robes on the rocks. The dark material of Erik’s shorts leaves little to imagination, revealing two long, pale legs, shapely calves, and elegant feet. The small pebbles underfoot clatter as Erik kicks his jeans aside. The whole situation feels rather surreal, as if Charles has simply stepped into a black and white and gray dream about Erik Lehnsherr.

 

“Oh,” says Charles.

 

“You have to feel the water to decide how much energy to expend towards your warming spells. Too much, you’ll overheat, too little, you’ll freeze to death.” Erik looks pointedly at Charles and Charles’ mouth parches. Erik stands straight, without an ounce of self-consciousness, looking expectantly at Charles. His mouth curls into a half-smile, his hair dark against the pale sky. Charles sighs and starts pulling off his robes.

 

Erik’s already ankle deep in lake water by the time Charles has tugged off his clothes, shivering in his black boxers in the cold air. Charles sweeps his gaze over the toned muscles in Erik’s back before the Durmstrang boy waves a hand, beckoning Charles forward.

 

As soon as one of his toes touches the water, Charles is gritting down on his teeth, goosebumps erupting all over his skin, skin clammy around his wand.

 

“Fuck,” Charles hisses. It feels as though a sharp jolt of electricity has shot up Charles’ leg, causing the hair on his skin to stand up.

 

“Take it slow,” Erik advises, standing calf-deep in the lake.

 

“Do you really think I’d rush into my death,” Charles mutters, wrapping his arms around himself.

 

The sky is nearly white, the sun obscured by clouds, but the lake is murky. Even with just his feet in the lake, Charles can barely see the white outline of his toes against the dark pebbles.

 

The splash of water alerts Charles when Erik begins wading back to the shoreline, back to Charles.

 

“Can’t I cast the warming spell now?” Charles asks, clenching his teeth.

 

“You’ll overheat,” Erik says simply. “It’s too dangerous to try and raise your body temperature before going into the water.”

 

“Lovely.”

 

“Come on,” Erik jerks his head towards the water, “We’ll only go knee-deep.”

 

Charles sighs, “Only.”

 

Charles focuses on the waistband of Erik’s shorts, dark against his pale skin, as Erik wades deeper, obviously comfortable in the cool water, and Charles follows in his wake, shivering pathetically all the while.

 

He thinks his entire body is shaking, his bones quivering in his skin. Every muscle in his body clenches, contracting. Charles steers his thoughts away from how unbearably cold the water is, thinks instead of homeostasis. _Decreased body temperature_ , Charles recites to himself, _activates warming mechanisms from the hypothalamus. Blood vessels in the skin constrict, diverting blood from skin to deeper tissues, reducing heat loss from the skin’s surface._

 

“Careful,” Erik calls behind him several minutes later, and Charles shudders when the freezing lake water laps at his ankles. The Durmstrang student walks a few steps in front of Charles.

 

 _Skeletal muscles rapidly contract_ , Charles recalls, _which causes shivering, which generates heat_. Thinking about his body’s thermoregulation seems to help a bit, distracting Charles from the bone-numbing chill that threatens to seep into every pore of his body. Charles shivers.

 

Erik begins, “There’s a – ”

 

And Charles’ heel catches on a loose, slippery pebble that’s coated with something that resembles algae. A sharp yelp escapes Charles’ lips and he throws his arms out wildly as his weight gives out underneath him.

 

Erik turns around in a flash, his Seeker reflexes allowing his arms to dart out at an inhuman speed, one hand catching Charles’ elbow and the other grabbing Charles’ shoulder, steadying him.

 

“Christ!” Charles breathes, his heartbeat fluttering in his chest, and Charles steps forward, onto more steady ground, water splashing onto his calves.

 

When Charles blinks, he realizes that Erik stands close, his hands hot on Charles’ body, eyes electric. There’s a slight bit of space in between their bodies, but not nearly enough for Charles to ignore the heat of Erik’s skin, the warmth that always seems to emanate from his body.

 

“Alright?” Erik’s eyebrows furrow. His palm cups Charles’ elbow almost tenderly, his other hand clasping Charles’ bony shoulder, and his hips sway dangerously close to Charles as the latter shifts, toes brushing against the lake’s pebbles. Charles’ right hand brushes against the inside of Erik’s left forearm, two knuckles pressing against the soft, warm skin there and Charles licks his lips.

 

“Maybe we should go back,” Erik says, eyebrows still furrowed when Charles doesn’t reply.

 

“No,” says Charles quickly, “No, I’m fine, I just – ” he clears his throat, curls his right hand into a fist so his knuckles no longer touch Erik’s arm. “I’m fine.”

 

Erik pulls away the hand that cups Charles’ elbow slowly, fingers dragging down Charles’ ulna bone and it shouldn’t be so erotic, but it _is_ ; the deliberate drag of three fingertips against Charles’ cold skin feels like three matchsticks striking sulfur, igniting a conflagration of desire in Charles’ stomach. It feels as though Erik has cast a heating charm, at the very bottom of Charles’ belly, and the heat pools dangerously, flames licking his insides. Erik steps back slowly, putting more distance between them.

 

“Are you cold?” Erik asks, concerned, and Charles’ gut clenches. The knot in Charles’ chest reappears suddenly, except this time, it’s all desire, unhindered by jealousy or obscured by pride. In Charles’ peripheral vision, he sees the water tugging at Erik’s shorts, the dark material swaying in the current.

 

“I’m fine,” Charles repeats firmly, nodding to himself. “Let’s keep going. Knee-deep, you said.”

 

Erik’s gaze softens and Charles feels his cheeks flush.

 

“As I was saying,” Erik begins again, and this time, as they venture out into the deeper waters, Erik remains close to Charles’ side. As much as Charles appreciates the notion, however, he struggles with the urge to keep stealing glances at Erik’s slender hips, his skin pulled taut over his ribcage. “There’s a dip a few yards from the shore, right around here, when the sides of the lake slope downward pretty drastically.”

 

“You know the waters well,” Charles glances back to where the castle looms. He thinks he can make out the hazy outline of a few figures underneath the cluster of trees.

 

“I like to swim,” Erik offers, and Charles allows himself to admire the way the water sensually tugs at Erik’s shorts, pulling the waistband tight around his hips, revealing two sharp hipbones. In the cold air, Erik’s nipples have pebbled and darkened, and Charles fakes a cough.

 

Tucking his hands into his armpits, Charles concentrates on the way Erik’s words lilt as the latter begins to describe, once again, the Durmstrang castle. Charles has to focus on walking carefully through the lake, but he glances up once or twice or every moment or so to see Erik waving a hand to emphasize his point.

 

Erik talks with his hands, his long fingers pale against the murky waters of the lake, slender and elegant as he describes the sandy strips of shore where Durmstrang students lie, remembers aloud the jagged cliffs of mountains that dig their rusty peaks into the dark belly of the sky. Charles is so transfixed, in fact, that when Erik finally stops talking, Charles realizes that the lake water laps gently at the backs of his knees.

 

“Oh!” Charles can’t help but exclaim in delight.

 

“Next time we’ll use heating charms, so we can actually swim,” Erik says and it sounds like a promise. _Next time_.

 

They turn back to the shoreline, and Charles says something about algae and seaweed growing in brackish water.

 

Erik lets out a considerate noise at that, and Charles happily begins to discuss an experiment that he and Hank read about in _Mad Science Monthly_.

 

Charles is animatedly describing how pernicious a shield charm can be for growing plants – sunlight refracts in an odd way against the spell, reducing the amount of light that plants can receive underneath the charm – when they make it back to the shore.

 

“I understand that you’re excited,” Erik huffs amusedly, leaning over to swipe his robes from the shore, and _Christ_ ; Charles’ brain stutters pathetically at the sight of Erik’s wet shorts clinging to the backs of his thighs, the curve of his rather spectacular arse, “But your skin is turning blue.”

 

With a flick of his wand, Erik conjures a fat, fluffy towel out of thin air, and floats it over to Charles.

 

“Herbology is very intriguing,” Charles insists, cheeks hot, grabbing the towel and rubbing it vigorously around his thighs.

 

“I’m sure,” Erik say amusedly and his mouth is pale, curled up into a soft smile.

 

“It’s interesting though,” Charles remarks, as he tugs on his robes, “Because most of the greenhouses here at Hogwarts here are protected by shield charms.” Charles frowns to himself. “I ought to speak to the professor about that.”

 

“Perhaps,” concedes Erik, who doesn’t even bother putting on his robes. He swings them casually over his shoulder, buckling up his belt again as the two of them begin walking back towards the castle. The metal makes a satisfying click as the belt shuts and Charles curls his hands into fists.

 

The wind nips at Charles’ skin, sharp and playful, at his nose and his ears and his fingers. His teeth chatter and he stuffs his hands into his robes. He murmurs a quick drying spell under his breath, focuses on taking one step at a time, doesn’t notice when Erik halts in front of him. He blinks when Erik reaches back to wrap his black scarf around Charles’ neck. Almost belatedly, Charles begins to let out a token protest.

 

“Your nose is red, Charles, and Braddock would murder me if her champion got hypothermia,” reasons Erik.

 

“I’m perfectly fine,” he mumbles into the scarf, which is warm and smells like Erik.

 

“Give it back another time,” Erik says easily, and his hair is still perfectly pushed back, not a single strand out of place. Charles huffs, but doesn’t protest again.

 

Charles scuffs his shoes against the dark pebbles as the two of them pace back to the castle. “Why did you – ” he begins, then cuts himself off, jaws snapping together with an audible click.

 

“Why did I come and talk to you?” finishes Erik, turning his head to Charles, his eyes sharp and intent.

 

“That first night,” agrees Charles. “And the times after that, in the library. What do you – ” Charles bites down on his lip to stop from continuing that train of thought. _What do you want from me?_

 

There’s a moment of silence as Erik considers this. Charles kicks an unusually large rock in front of his foot.

 

“It wasn’t anything much the first night,” admits Erik, “Just simple curiosity as to why you hadn’t attempted to speak to me yet.”

 

“But?” Charles prompts. He walks a little closer to Erik than necessary, plays it off as an attempt to leech some of his body heat. Thankfully, Erik doesn’t say a word, simply allows Charles to slip into his personal bubble. They are close enough for Charles to feel Erik’s elbow brush against his forearm as they walk, feel the heat radiating off of him in waves.

 

“But then I saw you in the library that day, so I thought I’d try again.” Erik purses his lips, “I wasn’t used to people not wanting to talk to me.”

 

At that, Charles lets out a sharp snort. “So what? You wanted to see what it would take to get me to open up to you?”

 

“On the contrary,” Erik states swiftly. “It was rather nice to have someone treat me normally for once.”

 

“I – ” Charles starts but he can’t seem to find an appropriate response to that. Instead, he reaches up and tightens Erik’s scarf around himself. “I’m not sure what to say to that.” Charles thinks of how Sean had explained to them how reclusive Erik was, even for a Quidditch star.

 

Erik shrugs smoothly. “It was easier to ignore back at home.”

 

“What, the paparazzi?”

 

“Hogwarts students seem particularly keen,” Erik smiles slowly, revealing a sliver of teeth.

 

Charles can’t help but scoff at that.

 

“At Durmstrang,” Erik starts thoughtfully, “It’s easier to forget. Everyone treats me,” he pauses and Charles finishes for him, “Normally.”

 

“I forgot how eager people can be,” says Erik, almost wistfully.

 

Charles makes an agreeable noise. They walk in silence for a moment more, and Charles has to fight to resist the urge to bump ‘accidentally’ into Erik’s side.

 

“There’s a Hogsmeade trip this weekend,” Charles remembers suddenly.

 

Erik hums in agreement, eyes distant. “Mind if I come?” he asks casually, as if inquiring about the weather. “A chance to explore the Hogwarts grounds and all,” Erik turns to Charles, his lips curled into half a smirk. He shrugs in a smooth, easy manner, unhurriedly, as if to say, _it’s up to you, it doesn’t matter_.

 

“I suppose you can tag along with me,” Charles says, blurting the words out without really thinking about it. Inwardly, he winces at how hopeful he sounds. _Christ, Xavier, pull yourself together_ , he thinks.

 

“It’s your responsibility, isn’t it? To improve interschool relations?” The teasing lilt inflicted in the last two words make them sound like an inside joke, and Charles feels his cheeks burning.

 

“You’re our guest,” Charles huffs in agreement, tugs on the end of the black scarf, “It’d be rude of me not to offer.”

 

“Of course,” Erik says easily, his expression betraying nothing, but Charles sees the way his eyes crinkle nevertheless.

 

They walk in comfortable silence to the edge of the lake. A few Durmstrang students wave for Erik to join them under a leaning tree. Erik nods in acknowledgement but makes no move to join them.

 

“See you tomorrow then?” Erik asks as they slow to halt.

 

Charles looks at Erik for a long moment before realizing that he doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

 

“See you then,” Charles says, turns and heads back to the castle with an odd feeling in his gut.

 


	6. Emma Frost's Scoop

Charles dreams of the lake.

 

It’s summertime, the sun high above the horizon and gloriously warm, beating down on Charles as he stands ankle-deep in lake water.

 

“Hi, Charles,” someone singsongs and it sounds suspiciously like the ghost of Sebastian Shaw.

 

“Shut up,” Charles tries to say, because he knows that he’s dreaming, but for some reason, can’t rouse himself.

 

The world is startlingly clear; Charles can see every individual pebble on the shores of the lake.

 

“Hi, Charles,” Sebastian says again, but he drags out the vowels so it sounds like _haaaaaaaai Chaaaarles_.

 

Charles frowns. There’s someone swimming in the lake, far out so that Charles can only make out a bobbing head and two dark shoulders. “There’s a giant squid in the lake, don’t you know?” Charles wants to tell the unsuspecting swimmer, but his throat closes around the words like a fist clenching a sword.

 

“Hi, Charles,” Sebastian says, and Charles swings his head around trying to find the irritable ghost.

 

“Charles,” he hears and Charles shakes his head, ignoring it, turning back to the lake.

 

“Hey,” Charles tries to call out again, but to no avail. It’s just a dream, isn’t it? Shouldn’t he be in charge of these things? Charles frowns to himself and imagines his voice carrying across the lake, like McCone’s booming voice, magically enhanced. “Hey!” Charles repeats, and his voice bounces across the water like rocks skipping across the surface, echoing off the hills in the distance and coming back.

 

“Charles,” someone drags out his name, exaggerating the vowels.

 

“Charles,” they repeat, and Charles can’t tell if it’s from his dream or something else.

 

For a moment, he hangs in the balance, between waking and slumber. “Charles,” they repeat insistently, and Charles blinks his eyes open, warm sunlight morphing into gray skies beyond the boys’ dormitory window.

 

“Charles,” Hank repeats, hovering over Charles’ face.

 

“Jesus, Hank,” Charles grumbles, slightly irked that he never found out whether or not he saved the swimmer in the lake. “What is it?”

 

“Raven and I aren’t coming up to Hogsmeade until after lunch,” the boy says, pushing his glasses up his nose, “I’ve got to speak to Professor Braddock about my Transfiguration marks.”

 

“Oh,” Charles murmurs, pulling his sheets up over his shoulders. “That’s fine, I’ll just see you there.”

 

“Are you going with Darwin and Alex?” Hank asks, sitting on Charles’ bed. The bed creaks.

 

“I was actually going to head up with Erik today,” Charles yawns, eyes sliding shut.

 

“Oh,” Hank says. He looks contemplative for a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. I think Sean’s going up with Moira today.”

 

“Thanks for the warning,” Charles murmurs sleepily, turning back into his pillow.

 

When he wakes a second time, the Ravenclaw dormitory has mostly emptied, Charles’ fellow housemates most likely already down at breakfast.

 

Charles doesn’t feel particularly hungry as he cleans up, heads down to the Entrance Hall.

 

_He’s just a guest and you’re just showing him around, Xavier, there’s nothing more than that_ , Charles tells himself as he quickly takes the steps down to the front entrance.

 

Erik stands under a sconce, talking to a Beauxbatons girl. Charles recognizes her as Maha’s sister as he draws closer to the pair.

 

Erik murmurs a quick farewell to the girl as Charles approaches, hands lost in the folds of his robes.

 

“Hello,” says Erik.

 

“Hello,” says Charles. “Shall we?”

 

The path to Hogsmeade meanders from the viaduct bridge up to the wizarding village. It’s difficult to navigate, especially as snow begins to fall from the sky when Charles and Erik trundle up the path, bundled up in their dark robes.

 

The path is mostly empty, and Charles finds himself in a heated debate with Erik halfway up to Hogsmeade.

 

“No,” Charles insists. The snow falls thick around them, and it’s difficult to trudge through the layer of snow covering the dirt path. “I’m not saying that I condone it, I’m just saying that it’d be easier to regulate if it were legal.”

 

Erik snorts, stuffing his hands further into his pockets. “Many things are illegal, Charles, but that doesn’t stop anyone from doing anything.” He waves a hand. “If the Ministry can’t regulate the use of Veritaserum, which is palpable and traceable, how do you expect them to regulate something like Legilimency?”

 

“Laws are always broken,” Charles pants, tugging Erik’s scarf tighter around himself. “There’s a higher probability that the practice will be properly regulated if it requires a license and proper authorization.”

 

“We’re talking about delving into people’s minds, Charles. It isn’t an easy thing to regulate, and if made legal, you don’t know how many people could potentially abuse the practice.”

 

“Right,” Charles concedes, “But isn’t the possibility of protection better than none at all? With Legilimency as an illegal practice, there would be no restrictions at all.”

 

“You can’t trust the Ministry,” Erik counters, and he bumps into Charles’ shoulder companionably. “They’re horribly inefficient.”

 

Charles laughs before he can stop it, his stomach bubbling with a hot mixture of mirth and friendly competition.

 

“No really,” Erik insists, but he’s smiling as he does so, and it feels like an invitation to nudge Erik back. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

“You’re not wrong,” Charles holds his hands up in surrender, but inwardly thinks that he could debate with Erik all day. As his smile fades and he lowers his hands, Charles claps one palm on Erik’s robe-clad shoulder. “You’re not wrong, my friend.”

 

Hogsmeade resembles the cover of an idyllic holiday card, Charles thinks, with its buildings lined up in perfect rows, snow falling gently on roofs in a crisp layer and lining the stone path that leads through the center of the village.

 

The Head Boy and the Seeker leave their lively debate on hold the moment they step onto the stone path, both of their eyes widening to look around at the various shops, decorated with holly wreaths and enchanted candles.

 

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Charles breathes, breath condensing in the air, and as a stream of holiday shoppers pass them, Erik steps closer to Charles to give the shoppers more room, subsequently brushing his warm arm against Charles’ shoulder.

 

“Come on,” Charles tugs Erik along, one gloved hand coming out to tug at Erik’s sleeve as they wander through the ebullient village.

 

They wander from Zonko’s Joke Shop – where Charles purchases an Inflatable Tongue – to Honeydukes, where they wander through aisle upon aisle of succulent sweets: fat hunks of nougat, squares of pink coconut ice, hundreds of types of chocolate, toad-shaped peppermint creams and exploding bonbons. Charles happily buys a Sugar Quill, much to Erik’s amusement, and Erik gets a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

 

Erik is still snorting at how Charles had levitated a few inches into the air after sucking on a Fizzing Whizzbee as they eventually stumble out of the shop.

 

“God, did you see that poor girl’s face?” Charles chortles, the snow shockingly cold against his skin after a good hour spent in the warmth of Honeydukes.

 

“At least you apologized,” Erik says as they bundle up once more, heading down towards the Three Broomsticks.

 

Charles’ cheeks are still flushed with humor when he swings open the door to the Three Broomsticks, Erik trailing close after.

 

The pub is packed today, as Charles artfully meanders through its patrons, waving to the occasional individual that calls out to him and Erik. As the two champions make their way to the back of the pub, where Charles can see a blonde head of hair belonging to his sister, Charles realizes abruptly that Raven and Hank are joined by none other than Emma Frost.

 

Today the reporter wears another pair of white robes, her blonde locks impeccably curled. By her side, a paunchy photographer stands, his camera hovering by his side.

 

The two women are glaring daggers at each other. Raven sits at the end of her booth, and Frost stands nearby, smiling coldly.

 

“Charles,” Hank says, almost in relief, as he spots Charles shouldering his way through the crowd.

 

“Charles!” Frost exclaims, her eyes widening. “And Mr. Lehnsherr too, what a pleasant surprise.”

 

“Hello, Ms. Frost,” Charles says through gritted teeth.

 

“Your sister was just raving about my article, Charles, about Professor Howlett. Have you read it yet?” she blinks innocently.

 

“He wouldn’t come near you with a ten-foot broomstick,” Raven says furiously from behind the reporter. “Who cares what Logan is? There’s nothing wrong with him.”

 

“My readers deserve the truth, sugar,” Frost says saccharinely, turning back to Raven.

 

“You’re a horrible woman,” Raven hisses, “You don’t care, do you? You’d talk to anyone for a story? I saw you trying to talk to John McCone – ”

 

“Raven,” Charles says warningly, but neither of the women pays him any mind.

 

“Sit down, you silly girl,” Frost snaps, voice icy, “I know things about John McCone that would make your hair curl.”

 

“I’m leaving,” Raven announces defiantly, standing up and shoving past the reporter. “Come on, Hank.”

 

“God, Raven,” Hank mutters, slamming down his glass to follow her as she storms out of the pub.

 

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t antagonize my sister,” Charles says lowly, very much aware that most of the back of the pub have gone silent to watch their interaction.

 

Frost’s smile flickers, ever so slightly, and her handbag snaps open, Quick-Quotes Quill flying out. “Have you got anything to say on the matter, Charles?”

 

Charles feels Erik step closer, his chest nearly pressed against Charles’ back in the confines of the crowded pub.

 

“Or you, Erik?” Frost tilts her head calculatingly.

 

Charles gives her a stern look, then turns around, grabbing onto Erik’s arm. “C’mon, let’s go.”

 

“Friendly,” Erik comments as they head back out, into the snow.

 

“Frost particularly dislikes my sister,” Charles mutters, tugging his robes tighter around himself. “Even since we adopted her, Frost’s been going on about the ‘poor Muggleborn adopted by Xavier’s bloodline,’” Charles quotes, rolling his eyes. “Raven doesn’t give her any traction though. Raven doesn’t care, and my mother,” Charles hesitates, “Well, let’s say she doesn’t read the papers.”

 

“Frost doesn’t seem like a woman who’d give up that easily,” remarks Erik, who turns a speculative eye on Charles.

 

“She doesn’t,” Charles grimaces. Their shoulders brush as they make their way down Hogsmeade’s stone path. “Just read the papers, we’ll see what she’s cooked up next.”

 

The snow picks up after that, as Charles and Erik make their way down to the castle.

 

“The enforcement of Ministry regulations is atrocious, Charles,” Erik is saying.

 

“Some regulation is better than no regulation,” Charles insists, as they continue their discussion over the legalization of Legilimency. “And besides – oh!” Charles looks up to see two figures making their way up to Charles and Erik, up to Hogsmeade.

 

“Hello,” Moira calls out, from where she walks next to Sean.

 

“Sean,” Charles nods, “Moira. It’s rather crowded in the Three Broomsticks, if that’s where you were headed, and Emma Frost is there as well,” Charles remarks, and Moira nods with gratitude.

 

Sean, however, has halted in his tracks, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

 

“Sean,” Charles fights the urge to laugh, “This is Erik.”

 

“Hi,” Erik says, and Charles and Erik come to a halt in front of Sean and Moira.

 

“Your game against Brazil last year was amazing,” Sean blurts out, “The way you totally _destroyed_ their defense.” Sean begins talking about Quidditch tactics, his mouth spewing out words, hands flying excitedly. Erik listens with an air of amusement, but glances back at Charles, who attempts to smile encouragingly. Sean breaks from his monologue for air. “And once I tried using the Wronski Feint in a game against Slytherin once.”

 

“Oh?” Erik raises an eyebrow, leaning back a bit so that his shoulder casually brushes Charles’ arm. “How did that turn out?”

 

“He broke his arm,” Moira cackles.

 

“Moira!” Sean hisses.

 

Erik laughs lowly, his arm warm where it brushes Charles’.

 

Sean is still blurting out facts at Erik, so the Hufflepuff misses the way Moira gives Charles a suggestive look.

 

“Moira,” Charles mutters warningly, but the Gryffindor edges closer to Charles nevertheless, “Thanks for giving us the heads-up about Frost,” she directs at Charles, her eyes glinting with humor as she pushes his shoulder companionably. Subsequently, Charles stumbles a little closer to Erik, which causes the Seeker to look away from Sean for a moment, reflexively grabbing onto Charles’ waist to stabilize him.

 

“Jesus,” Charles mumbles under his breath, glaring daggers at Moira, who blinks sweetly.

 

“You okay?” Erik rumbles, his arm wound tight around Charles’ chest, their sides pressed together so that Charles can feel the heat of Erik’s body.

 

“Fine,” Charles all but snaps, his cheeks burning, but Erik still holds him close.

 

“Charles gets a little clumsy in the snow,” Moira says to Erik. “It’s a good thing you’ve got experience.”

 

Erik says something about cold weather in response, but Charles ignores it, concentrates on extracting himself out of Erik’s grip.

 

“Oh!” interjects Sean excitedly, then makes another obscure Quidditch reference, staring at Erik all the while.

 

“I think he gets it,” Moira pats Sean’s shoulder, brushing snow out of her hair with her other hand. “I’m sure we can talk to Erik another time, yeah? We promised Angel we’d meet her for drinks.”

 

“Right,” Sean says, still blinking at Erik, who finally releases Charles from his iron grip.

 

“Have fun,” Charles directs mostly at Sean, ignores Moira who’s smiling smugly as they part ways.

 

“Sorry about that,” Charles mutters, putting a bit of distance between the two of them as they stroll down the path.

 

“It happens more often than you think,” Erik smiles easily and Charles’ stomach drops.

 

“Oh,” Charles’ voice oddly detached. “Right.”

 

Erik lets out a hum of agreement, his eyes distant.

 

“I suppose you have fans falling over you all the time, right?” Charles hears himself say a second later, “Must be habitual to catch them.”

 

“What?”

 

“What?” Charles says.

 

Erik raises an eyebrow, “I thought you were talking about Sean.”

 

“Oh,” Charles says. “I thought you were – never mind.”

 

Erik looks at him for a moment. Then, he says, “Anyway, I don’t know if you recall, but the restriction on Veritaseum that the Ministry passed three years ago has been pretty much ignored – ” and Charles nods in agreement, chats with Erik easily as they walk back to the castle.

 

Erik and Charles part amicably after that, Charles waving off the Durmstrang boy and heading down to Logan’s cabin, where Raven and Hank are, no doubt. Charles sighs and pushes all thoughts of Emma Frost and Quidditch to the side.

 


	7. The Yule Ball

# Seven - The Yule Ball: 7.1k

 

Their Hogsmeade excursion had been pleasant enough, Charles thinks, between Charles and Erik’s friendly debate on the way up to Hogsmeade and their time spent in the various shops there. A perfectly pleasant trip for two champions wanting to get to know each other. Nothing wrong with that at all, Charles thinks, as snow collects around a glass window, as he sits in Transfigurations class, listening to Braddock drone on and on. It’s perfectly normal to ask a fellow competitor to show you around the school, isn’t it? And yet, Charles can’t stop thinking about how casually Erik had brushed his arm against Charles’, the way his cheeks turned slightly pink in the frost.

 

“And as the class concludes,” the Headmistress announces, “I have something to say to you all.”

 

Charles straightens up, clearing his throat.

 

“I must remind you that the Yule Ball is approaching – a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament, and an opportunity for us to social with our foreign guests.”

 

Charles slumps back into his seat. The two twin girls behind Charles giggle shrilly and Charles fights the urge to roll his eyes.

 

“Now, dress robes will be worn, and the ball will start at eight o’clock on the twenty-fifth of this month, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall. I expect the best behavior from all of you,” she finishes, just as the clock tower chimes and Charles shoves his books into his bag, determined to head off and write a bit of the Ministry of Magic’s application essay.

 

Erik’s already sitting in their – in Charles’ usual spot, Charles mentally corrects himself – when Charles walks in, tossing his bag onto the table.

 

Erik looks up from where he’s setting up the chessboard. “Something the matter?”

 

Charles lets out a long, suffering sigh as he sits down. “I don’t understand why everyone seems to be so obsessed with this ball.” Charles tugs out his Ministry essay and stares at it forlornly. “Everyone’s giggling and whispering in the hallways and I can’t think,” Charles grumbles.

 

“Don’t let anyone hear you saying that,” Erik remarks smoothly, “Nobody can think that the Head Boy is less than excited for the Yule Ball.”

 

Charles props an elbow onto the table, props his chin onto his outstretched palm, still looking at his essay all the while. “I still haven’t asked anyone,” Charles realizes, groaning.

 

“You’re the Hogwarts champion, Charles,” Erik says, prodding a pawn forward, “Anyone will go with you.”

 

Raven’s words keep coming back to him. “They only like him because he’s famous!” she’d snorted a few mornings ago.

 

“Besides,” Erik interrupts Charles’ thoughts, “I’d be happy to take you.” Erik looks up, the corner of his mouth turned up teasingly, and he asks with that same easy manner, careless and casual.

 

“You know perfectly well champions can’t take champions,” Charles mumbles, although he fights very hard to keep any emotion out of his voice. An unbidden image begins forming in Charles’ mind: the two of them at the Yule Ball, Erik in his vivid red Durmstrang uniform, and Charles – Charles quashes the image viciously. _Get a grip_ , he scowls to himself inwardly.

 

“Too bad,” Erik shakes his head, his lips still curled into the seductive smile, and _damn_ , Charles thinks, does Erik even know how attractive that smile is? He practices it in front of the mirror, something in the back of Charles’ head informs him. Charles sighs. “Rook to E5,” he says, and takes Erik’s queen.

 

As he finally leaves the library later that evening, Charles heads to the Head Boy and Girl’s dormitory, between the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Towers, meaning to pick up a few of his old textbooks before returning to the Ravenclaw common room.

 

The Head Girl, another seventh year Hufflepuff, is gone, most likely studying in the library. The joint dormitory, shared between Head Boy and Head Girl, are hardly rarely used by their owners, who prefer the comfort of their own house towers over the empty Head Boy and Girl dormitory. However, today the common room is still bustling with commotion.

 

“You know,” Charles frowns, “You really shouldn’t be in here.”

 

Alex sits ashen-faced in Charles’ favorite armchair in the dormitory common room, staring blankly into the fire. Angel sits on the arm of the chair, patting his shoulder and murmuring something in a soothing voice.

 

“What’s wrong?” Charles asks, coming over to join them.

 

Alex looks up, his eyes wide. “Charles, I – I didn’t mean to,” the boy says, and Charles’ stomach drops.

 

“Angel,” he says, using his best prefect voice, “What’s going on?”

 

“He – well,” Angel looks like she’s struggling to maintain a straight face.

 

“Just tell him, Angel,” Hank says, from where he lies on another couch. Charles whirls around.

 

“Hank, did you give them the password?”

 

Hank shrugs, and Angel asks Charles, “Do you remember that brown-haired kid? From Beauxbatons?”

 

Charles frowns. “What does that – ”

 

Alex lets out a whimper.

 

“The really good-looking one,” Angel says. “Well, Alex, er, Alex asked him to go to the Yule Ball with him.” She looks torn with amusement and sympathy.

 

“Oh,” Charles says, sighing with relief, sitting back in his chair. “I thought you were – ”

 

The door swings open then, revealing Darwin as he clambers into the dormitory.

 

“Honestly,” Charles says, exasperatedly, “This is the Head Boy’s dormitory.”

 

“Hey Charles,” Darwin says in reply, heading over to sit by Hank.

 

“This is stupid,” Alex says glumly, staring into the fire. “Oh!” he straightens up suddenly, “Angel! You weren’t there, but do you know the fifth year in Gryffindor with the square face?”

 

“Who?” Charles frowns.

 

“Yeah?” Angel sits up a bit.

 

“He asked _Raven_!” Alex laughs. “Oh God, and she said she was already going with someone,” Alex breaks off, laughing.

 

From his spot on the couch, Hank says, “Don’t laugh.”

 

Just then, the door swings open once more, revealing Raven.

 

“Head Boy’s dormitory,” Charles reminds her.

 

“Good thing,” Raven replies simply, patting him on the shoulder as she stalks by to perch on the other arm of Alex’s chair.

 

“Why aren’t you all in your common rooms?” Raven asks.

 

“Because – oh shut up, you two, stop laughing – they’re just realized that they don’t have dates to the ball,” Darwin says, jerking his head towards Alex and Raven.

 

That sobers the two of them up.

 

“Thanks, Darwin,” Angel says sourly.

 

Darwin smirks, sitting back into his seat.

 

Angel huffs a sigh. “We better get a move on before all the good ones are gone.”

 

“At least Sean doesn’t have a date yet, either,” Alex says.

 

“He’s not staying for the hols,” Charles says absent-mindedly, while he simultaneously resorts his books and listens in on their conversation.

 

“Well,” Hank sits up, and all eyes turn to the Ravenclaw. “We could all just go together.”

 

“No,” Angel says flatly.

 

“Go on,” Darwin says, “I want to hear this.”

 

“Well,” Hank says again, “Angel could go with Charles, Darwin with Alex, and um,” Hank coughs into his hand.

 

“Okay,” Alex says, a bit too eagerly, sitting up in his chair.

 

Angel glares at Hank, then at Charles.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Charles holds up his hands mildly.

 

“Hank, I’d rather go by myself than go with Charles,” Angel says. “The Head Boy doesn’t know how to have any kind of fun.”

 

“Hey!” Charles protests.

 

“I agree with Angel,” Raven says.

 

“You don’t even have a date!” Alex protests.

 

“I’m already going with someone,” Raven snaps, “Just because it took you all six years to notice that I’m an eligible date doesn’t mean no one _else_ has!”

 

Hank’s mouth falls open.

 

Raven stands up and exits the room before Charles can stop her.

 

“She’s lying,” Alex says flatly.

 

“No she’s not,” Angel says.

 

“Who is it then?” Hank asks quickly.

 

“It’s none of my business,” protests Angel, and Charles rubs his temple wearily. 

 

“I’m going after Raven,” Charles says finally, as Alex and Darwin awkwardly do not look at each other, as Angel and Hank stare into the fire, lost in their own thoughts.

 

“I’ll come with you,” Darwin darts up quickly, the two of them striding through the door, following Raven.

 

“That was a mess,” Charles says, and Darwin grimaces in agreement.

 

They find Raven tucked in an alcove on the seventh floor, muttering a few spells under her breath.

 

“Raven,” Charles starts tentatively, and both Darwin and Charles sit by her.

 

“Hi Charles,” she says, waving her wand idly. “Speaking of dates, who are you bringing?” She seems oddly cheerful.

 

Charles glances at Darwin.

 

“Well, I haven’t asked anyone yet.”

 

“Better get a move on,” Raven laughs. And then, “Just ask Moira.”

 

The memory of Erik asking Charles to the ball rises, unbidden, to the forefront of Charles’ mind. _I’d be happy to take you_ , Erik’d said, so casually, so easily and Charles stomach knots at the mere thought of it.

 

Get over yourself, Charles scolds himself, he was joking. There’s no way Erik could’ve been serious, Charles thinks. No, anyone would be more than happy to go with Erik Lehnsherr to the Yule Ball; the Seeker could bring anyone he wanted.

 

“I heard Professor Braddock ordered eight hundred barrels of mulled mead,” Raven offers.

 

“No way,” Darwin counters. “There is no way.”

 

“Is too,” interrupts Raven. She flips her hair. “One of the Hufflepuffs told me.”

 

“No,” Charles says to Raven, remembering that she had offered him an answer. “Moira doesn’t even like me that way.”

 

“Exactly,” a burst of yellow sparks fly from Raven’s wand. “That’s why she’s the perfect person to bring. If you bring anyone from your fanclub – ”

 

“Fanclub?” echoes Darwin.

 

“Then whoever you’ll bring will never let you go.” Raven nods solemnly.

 

Charles sighs. Outside, the earth is dark and still, stars twinkling in the sky and reflecting off the mirror surface of the lake. Raven and Darwin begin chattering about a particularly tricky animation spell, and Charles’ thoughts turn. He imagines where he will be a year from now – perhaps working in the Department of Mysteries, perhaps researching for the Ministry halfway across the world. The thought frightens him, and he suddenly turns away from the window, pushes all thoughts of the future aside.

 

The next day, the dungeons are warm and sultry, steam leaking from underneath the Potions classroom door, as Charles waits in the Potions corridor.

 

As soon as the bell tower chimes, students barge out of the classroom, talking loudly amongst themselves.

 

“Hey Charles!” someone calls, and Charles steps back, pressing himself against the wall to avoid the rush of students.

 

“Hi,” Charles manages over the din, nodding to a Gryffindor prefect that waves to him. Charles can’t seem to remember her name.

 

The prefect makes her way through the crowd, walking up to stand next to Charles, who is still standing on his tiptoes, craning his neck to look across the sea of students.

 

“Looking for someone?” she asks, blinking rapidly.

 

“Yes, actually,” Charles doesn’t look at the Gryffindor prefect, “Moira. Have you seen her?”

 

“She’s still talking to the professor. It’ll probably be a while? I can wait with you, if – ”

 

“That’s fine,” Charles looks down to smile at the prefect. “See you later, then.”

 

“Right,” she replies, looking faintly disappointed, but heads off nevertheless.

 

Moira McTaggert is, predictably, the last to exit the classroom, her bookbag slung over one shoulder.

 

“Moira,” Charles pushes himself off the wall, striding quickly to keep up with her insistent pace. “I wanted to ask you – ”

 

“Ask away, Charles,” Moira grimaces, shoving a piece of paper into her bookbag, “You can ask all the questions you want, but it won’t change the fact that Gerda Boyd put Sopophorous bean juice into her cauldron – which, by the way, exploded into mine – and _I_ was marked down!”

 

“Moira,” Charles tries again, following the girl as they turn around the corner, into an empty hallway.

 

“I _told_ her, I said, ‘Gerda, don’t you think it’d be a good idea to slice your beans instead of smash them?’ But did she listen? No, she just – ”

 

“Moira, will you go to the Yule Ball with me?” Charles blurts out, while the corridor is still empty.

 

“ _No_ , Charles, _God_!” she scowls at him, “Anyway, she just smashed her beans! And then I said, ‘Gerda, are you sure that’s a good idea?’”

 

“Moira,” Charles groans, reaching out to grab her shoulder.

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

They come to a halt in the middle of the corridor.

 

“Please,” Charles smiles charmingly. “Please go to the Yule Ball with me.”

 

She frowns. “Are you serious?”

 

“Absolutely,” Charles says firmly.

 

“What about Erik?”

 

“What about him?”

 

“Well,” she huffs, hitching her bag up higher on her shoulder, turning to walk away. “I’m sure he’ll say yes if you ask him.”

 

“Moira,” Charles reaches out to stop her again, flushing, “It’s not like that, he was just joking, I don’t – ”

 

Moira’s jaw drops. Her eyes widen. “He _asked you_?”

 

“Oh, say it a bit louder, would you?” Charles hisses. Then, “Why? Did you think he wouldn’t?”

 

“No,” Moira shakes her head, “Of course he would – Charles what did you _say_?”

 

“Well, obviously he didn’t mean it. It’s probably a reflex of his to say things like that,” Charles glances up to make sure the hallway is still empty, “Which is why, as your friend, I’m begging you, Moira – ”

 

“What do you mean he didn’t mean it?” demands Moira.

 

“I mean,” Charles says through gritted teeth, “He probably gets marriage proposals every other week, Moira; he wasn’t serious about – ”

 

“How do you know?” Moira challenges.

 

“God, Moira,” Charles says, his voice tight with exasperation, “You know how his lot are.”

 

“His lot?” echoes Moira.

 

“You know,” Charles waves a hand desperately, “Like, well,” he fumbles, “Like that Slytherin Beater that Angel dated! He was horrid!”

 

“You don’t know if Erik’s like that,” Moira says, looking at him pointedly.

 

“It’s beside the point,” Charles says, very careful to keep his voice steady. “Champions can’t take champions anyway.”

 

For a long moment, Charles is afraid the Gryffindor will say no.

 

Then, Moira sighs sufferingly. “I’ll never forgive you if you step on my toes in front of the entire school.”

 

“Thank you,” Charles grins, “You’re a lifesaver, Moira.”

 

“I know,” she grumbles, tugs him down the hallway. “Now come on, you promised me you’d read my essay.”

 

It seems as though not only the students, but the castle itself as well, prepare for the Yule Ball. After Charles finally begs Moira to go to the ball with him, he notices icicles hanging from the ceiling of every corridor, old suits of armor polished and shining, and the Great Hall becoming increasingly decorated as the ball comes closer and closer.

 

Charles does his fair share of decoration; he stays back and helps Professor Quested bring in tables and store them in the dungeons. He entertains Raven and Angel’s guesses about the entertainment at the ball, refuses to tell them which band Braddock has hired.

 

“I can’t tell you!” Charles protests, “It’s unfair!”

 

“God, Charles,” Angel mumbles, “When you were chosen as Head Boy I thought it’d be fun, because then you could let us all stay up late and tell us secrets.”

 

Charles grins wickedly.

 

The students become rowdier and rowdier as the Yule Ball comes closer and closer, and Charles often finds himself barricaded in the library, shifting bookshelves around to block his table from the view of any giggling students.

 

“This is,” Erik pauses after he slides through a gap between the wall and a bookshelf.

 

“Excessive?” Charles grimaces, looking up from his Ministry essay.

 

“Unexpected,” Erik finishes, sliding a box of Every Flavour Beans over to Charles, who takes it eagerly.

 

“You have ink on your face,” Erik says mildly, pulling out the chair next to Charles, which Charles has dragged closer to himself to stack his books on. Erik grabs the books with one hand, sets them on the table, and sits without bothering to adjust the seat. As a result, both of Erik’s kneecaps brush against Charles’ left thigh as the former situates himself to face Charles, sitting sideways in the chair. With one hand, Erik reaches out to brush the pad of his thumb against Charles’ cheek and Charles’ insides wither.

 

“I’m a hard worker,” Charles says, but he can’t bring himself to look back at his essay. Erik rubs the spot on Charles’ cheek for a moment, before Charles has to blurt out, “Here, I got it,” and reaches up to try and get the spot for himself.

 

However, Erik doesn’t move his hand away like Charles expects, so their hands bump and Charles ends up clutching Erik’s wrist with three fingers. Charles wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

 

“Erik,” Charles starts, and Erik’s hand still lingers on Charles’ cheek, his palm hot against Charles’ jaw. Erik is close, so so close, leaning forward in his seat, which is already dangerously close to Charles, and Charles feels lightheaded in such proximity.

 

For a moment, Charles almost loses himself – Erik’s eyes are unbelievably blue and intense, pupils blown, his mouth pale, lips smooth –

 

And Charles can feel himself leaning forward before he remembers himself suddenly, lurching backwards quickly and blinking rapidly.

 

“Um,” Charles clears his throat, his skin burning with embarrassment. “Do you want to play a game?” he blurts out frantically, nodding towards the chessboard on the other side of the table.

 

“Sure,” Erik agrees, but he sounds distracted, and Charles feels himself flushing as Erik pulls away slowly. Charles all but leaps out of his chair to snatch up the chessboard, sitting himself across from Erik to set up the pieces.

 

Charles is still flushed when he enters the Ravenclaw common room that night, his thoughts a mix of _stupid stupid stupid_ and _get a grip, Xavier_ , when he sees Hank sitting in front of the fireplace, looking oddly bereft without his usual newspaper or novel.

 

“Hank?” Charles frowns. “You alright?”

 

“Fine,” Hank mumbles, looking very pale.

 

“Oh,” Charles frowns a bit, realizes that he isn’t very good at this at all.

 

Between Raven’s mysterious date and Darwin and Alex skittering around each other, the days leading up to the Yule Ball become rather stressful, so Charles is relieved when the day finally comes.

 

Hank, Darwin, and Charles eventually wander up to their dormitories, tugging on their dress robes. Hank and Darwin look rather self-conscious, but none as much as Charles, who lingers in front of the mirror, tugging furiously at his sleeves.

 

“Blasted thing,” Charles mutters.

 

“Just cut off the ruffs,” Darwin calls from the other side of the room, shaking out his own sleeves so the frills fall over his wrists.

 

Charles uses a severing charm to neatly remove most of the excess frilling, tossing it into the fire with a satisfied smile. “This was probably a very old relic,” Charles comments, “Passed down from generation to generation of Purebloods.”

 

“Only to be completely redone by Charles Xavier,” Hank combs through his hair.

 

“I think they look much better now,” says Charles.

 

They ascend the stairs to the Ravenclaw common room later, and Hank mutters something about finding tables, leaves Darwin and Charles to walk to the Gryffindor common room alone.

 

“Did you ever find out who Raven was going with?” Darwin asks as they stride up to wait beside the Fat Lady.

 

“It wasn’t Hank, and that’s all that mattered to him,” Charles quirks the corner of his lips.

 

Moira emerges from the common room a little after that, in pretty gray robes, mutters, “If you step on my feet, I will kill you,” followed by Alex in his dark dress robes.

 

With their respective dates in tow, Charles and Darwin make their way down to the Great Hall, where the staff have done a rather spectacular job of transforming the castle.

 

The entrance hallway is completely packed with students, all of them wearing robes of various colors instead of the usual black. Charles continues adjusting his sleeves until Moira nudges him pointedly. Students from all three schools congregate in the corridor, waiting for the door to the Great Hall to open.

 

An impressive number of delicate icicles dang from the ceiling, reflecting an array of pale blue-purple lights. The lights dance off the entire hall, which has been coated in a shimmering, ice-like material. The whole thing feels very surreal: the crystalline lights are soft and muted, giving everything amorphous shadows; thick fog rolls across the hall so that the stone floor is concealed; dark, crawling vines curl delicately into the stone arches set into the walls.

 

Moira murmurs something about home decor, and Charles hardly has time to ask, “I’m sorry?” before his attention diverts to something else entirely.

 

He catches a glance of something maroon in the corner of his eye, turns to see Erik ascending the stairs with a Durmstrang girl clutching his arm delicately. Next to him, Moira inhales swiftly.

 

The maroon material of girl’s dress complements the darker shades of Erik’s dress robes perfectly, and she is looking somewhere to her right as she clutches Erik’s arm, as the two of them descend the stairs.

 

Charles clears his throat, has to look away from how the dark material of Erik’s dress robes hug his chest, his legs, when Moira jerks him a bit to the left, where Azazel – a prefect from Slytherin with a rather nasty tan – saunters into the corridor, a delicate blonde clinging to his arm.

 

Charles spares them a glance before trying to locate Professor Quested and pointedly ignoring Erik. Moira whispers, scandalized, “Charles! That’s your _sister_! With a _Slytherin_ prefect!”

 

“Ah, Moira,” Charles shakes his head fondly, “Your House rivalry with Slytherin is something I’ll never – did you say, my sister?”

 

And lo behold, the delicate blonde on Azazel’s arm is, in fact, Raven, dressed in robes of floaty, periwinkle-blue material, her hair wound into tight curls around the nape of her neck, at the back of her head.

 

“Hi Charles. Hi Moira,” she greets cheerily as she floats by, clutching Azazel’s arm.

 

“Wait until Hank sees,” Moira mutters. Charles blinks.

 

Alex and Darwin, as they filter into the Great Hall behind the interhouse couple, are watching with twin expression of bewilderment, as are a few other Hogwarts students.

 

Eventually, Professor Quested comes up to Charles and Moira, motioning for them to wait as everyone but the champions enter the Hall. Erik is nowhere to be found – not that Charles is looking for him.

 

“Ah, thank you, Professor,” Charles nods, and Moira guides him to the side of the Great Hall’s doors, where they line up behind Maha Abdelaziz and her date – Charles recognizes her as one of the sixth year prefects from Slytherin. Their dresses both are blue, but Maha’s dark and her accompanying date’s dress light, perfectly juxtaposed but somehow the same.

 

Before Charles can open his mouth to say hello, however, the line of champions and their dates – Erik and the Durmstrang girl are in front of Maha and Charles – begins to enter the hall, following Professor Quested.

 

The Great Hall has been visibly transformed. Although Charles has spent most of the day helping decorate, it’s still shocking to see the four house tables gone, replaced with much smaller, delicate-looking tables seating about a dozen people each. The floor has been covered with a shimmering surface, and the walls glisten with magic ice. The black ceiling reflects a thousand stars, and fake snow begins to fall.

 

“Oh,” Moira says delightfully, as they whisk across the floor, into the space cleared for the dance floor. Charles puts on a smile as they near the rest of the students, pulling Moira close and concentrating on not stepping on her toes as they swish across the floor.

 

Moira appears to be enjoying herself, beaming happily and humming under her breath as they waltz, but Charles sighs in relief when they finally approach the champions’ table, where a few house elves scurry up to pull out chairs for the approaching champions.

 

“Very good, very good,” McCone says, although he sounds rather bored from where he sits beside the three headmistresses.

 

“Right,” Moira says faintly, looking around at the decorations as Charles ushers her to their seats. Charles feels his palms moisten, and rather wishes the night could be over.

 

The champions take their spots around the table, Charles across from Moira, who sits next to Erik’s date, which leaves the spot next to Charles for –

 

“Hello, Erik,” Charles says, as the Seeker takes his seat.

 

“Oh!” Moira looks up at Erik’s date. “Charles! This is Lily, I told you she was the one who,” she breaks off into an excited description of a newspaper called the Quibbler, losing interest in the decor as she starts talking to the Durmstrang girl.

 

“Hello, Charles,” Erik replies easily, although his eyes dart to the judges’ table, where McCone keeps stealing glances at the champions’ table.

 

Dinner proceeds without a hitch, food appearing magically on their plates. Conversation flows easily, and Charles is content to simply listen, not particularly wanting to actively partake in the conversation. Maha is describing the Beauxbatons castle to the table when Charles looks up across the Great Hall.

 

“Oh dear,” Charles murmurs, glances over to where Hank sits next to Alex and Darwin, picking at his mashed potatoes.

 

Erik shifts in his seat to lean closer to Charles in question.

 

“Azazel and Raven,” Charles motions with his fork, leaning in so as not to disturb Maha and the girls, explains to Erik the situation under his breath, well aware of how their shoulders brush all the while. Charles fights the urge to flush.

 

The dance floor reopens halfway through dinner, and some of the more eager students have made their way to the open space, including Azazel and Raven, much to Hank’s evident disappointment. Charles sees Madame Grey with Logan waltzing along the floor as well, next to Angel and another Hufflepuff boy.

 

The dinner plates have been cleared by the time Maha finishes her exuberant description of the Durmstrang castle, both of the Hogwarts girls and Erik’s date leaning in eagerly to listen.

 

“Hot, isn’t it?” Maha grins, fanning herself. “I think I’m off to get some drinks.” She glances around the table, “Shall we?”

 

Charles makes an aborted movement to rise but Moira pats his shoulder. “We’ll get you and Erik drinks, don’t worry,” she smiles and Charles sits back down.

 

“Why do I have a feeling,” Erik remarks easily, “That they won’t be coming back?”

 

“Their obligations to us have concluded for the night, and you’re horrible conversation, really,” Charles mournfully eyes his empty goblet. He wonders when champions are allowed to leave. “Speaking of drinks though, would you mind getting me a butterbeer before they run out? I really ought to go talk to Hank at the moment.”

 

The moment Erik wanders off in search of drinks, Charles sees a crowd of Beauxbatons following him along. Shaking his head, Charles heads around the edge of the dance floor, smiles to a few girls who wave to him, then skirts around a few tables, to where Hank sits with Alex and Darwin. The latter two are engrossed in conversation, but Hank watches the dance floor.

 

“Having a good time?” Charles asks, sits down without looking at Hank.

 

Hank shrugs. “You know, you really should be out there – ” he breaks off and makes a vague gesture with his hand.

 

“What, socializing?” Charles sighs and leans back against the chair.

 

Shrugging once more, Hank pushes up his glasses. Something twists in his gut at the sight of his friend so dejected, so Charles claps Hank’s shoulder, “Shall we go find Sean and Angel?”

 

“I’m gonna get more drinks, Charles, you go ahead,” Hank blurts out abruptly, stands so quickly that his dress robes flare around his ankles.

 

Charles frowns. “Alright.”

 

He realizes why Hank departed so suddenly when he looks up and sees Azazel walking with Raven, the two of them discussing something animatedly as they stroll toward the tables.

 

Charles clears his throat, nodding farewell to Darwin and Alex before searching for Hank. He’s gotten halfway down the hall when a Beauxbatons student comes up to Charles, frowning. “Excuse me,” she asks, “Where’s Maha gone?” nodding towards the vacant champions’ table. Before Charles can reply, though, a few of her acquaintances come over, smiling at Charles and introducing themselves.

 

Charles is in the middle of explaining how, no, we don’t normally use Veela hair in our wands, when someone clasps him firmly on the shoulder.

 

“Hello,” Erik says politely.

 

“Oh,” the first girl blushes, “Sorry, Erik, didn’t mean to keep you waiting, I’m sure you all have – ” she waves a vague hand, “Champion things to do.”

 

“Will you sign?” another girl blurts out, holding out a scrap piece of parchment and the rest of them burst out in giggles.

 

Charles smiles weakly. The music is rather loud in the Great Hall, its reverberations echoing back and forth and back and forth; Charles wonders if the acoustics have been musically altered for tonight. Thankfully, the Beauxbatons girls don’t ask Charles for an autograph. But even so, he shifts uncomfortably on his feet – his dress shoes pinch his toes – and wonders how he can politely leave a conversation.

 

It turns out, he doesn’t have to wonder.

 

A few minutes and a few autographs later, Erik smiles placidly at the girls before politely excuses the both of them; Charles can’t hear what Erik says over the din of the room but he finds himself following Erik out of the hall. Erik hands Charles a frosty glass of butterbeer and they head into the rose garden.

 

“Alright?” Erik asks lowly, as they exit the boisterous hall.

 

Charles breathes in the cool air eagerly.

 

“Yes, thank you,” Charles remembers to say, belatedly.

 

In the shade of an enormous fountain ahead, Charles can barely discern the shape of two figures – Logan and Madame Grey – murmuring under their breaths.

 

“You can head back, if you’d like,” Charles says, “I just don’t feel too well tonight.” Then, he adds, “I hope I’m not keeping you from the dance.”

 

“I’d rather be here,” Erik says easily, as they stroll along the ornamental path that winds through fountains and stone statues and rose bushes. Charles’ breath catches in Erik’s throat and he can’t tell if Erik is telling the truth or not.

 

“Really?” Charles bites out, turning to look at Erik, who looks back at him, his expression thoughtful.

 

“Do you want me to go?” counters Erik and Charles exhales, sees his breath condensing in the cool air.

 

 “No,” Charles admits, albeit a little breathlessly.

 

They wind up in a secluded part of the garden, water splashing joyously from a large fountain, just in front of a pair of stone benches. The air is cool and refreshing, and the night is still and peaceful. Charles’ head aches a little less here.

 

As Charles sits, the stone of the secluded bench is cool under his dress robes. “I didn’t want to wear these,” Charles admits, does not let his gaze linger on the long line of Erik’s legs.

 

Erik lets out a soft chuckle, leans back from where he stands and casts his gaze upwards, to the stars in the sky. “Nobody likes dress robes, Charles.”

 

Charles lets out a laugh at that, ignores the quiet rustle of bushes as the back of his shoulders brushes against them.

 

Above them, Charles sees the clock tower rising above dark turrets, its face reading five to twelve. Something thick blocks his throat, and he thinks that all of his charisma falls useless now, in the face of someone who knows, _knows_ Charles and would see right through the act – someone who expects nothing but the truth from Charles – and Charles wonders when why he’d allowed Erik to get in so deep under his skin.

 

“Do you want to see something?” Charles blurts out, watches water trickling from the fountain, splashing onto the pebbles of the garden path. He rolls his empty glass on his thigh.

 

“The ball ends in soon,” Erik notes. Charles wonders if it's his imagination or if Erik’s accent is actually slightly heavier tonight.

 

“Exactly,” Charles stands swiftly, brushes off his robes.

 

And Erik, bless him, follows, even though his eyebrows furrow in bemusement. “Don’t you have curfew?”

 

“Of course,” Charles says, starts strolling from the garden, listening to the telltale sound of gravel crunching as Erik follows him. “But I’m Head Boy.” He looks back to send an impish smile to Erik and Erik laughs, a low sound that reverberates in Charles’ throat, and the two of them fall into an easy pattern, their strides matching as Charles leads them around the front of the castle, away from prying eyes, towards the East Wing of the castle but further out towards the forest.

 

Moonlight glints off the glass of the greenhouses, all seven of them lined up in a clearing, closer to the stone walls of the castle than the Forbidden Forest, but far enough that Charles and Erik have to walk for a minute, stopping in front of the second to last one.

 

“Greenhouses,” Erik observes, head craned back to take them in in their entirety.

 

“The sixth one is the best one,” Charles remarks, shivers a bit in the chill of the night before tapping the lock with his wand, swinging the door open easily. He leaves his empty glass of butterbeer outside on the grass.

 

Warm air rushes out to greet them and Charles steps eagerly into the warmth of the greenhouse, its glass panes slightly obscure with condensation. Erik shuts the door after them with a resounding click.

 

Greenhouse Six houses Hogwarts’ only botanical garden, various plants crawling up the sides of the glass structure, dark leaves and thick foliage coating the sides of the greenhouse. Several plants hang from the ceiling, casting inky shadows across the cement floor. At night, the entire greenhouse is cast in shadow and moonlight, blending into various shades of dark green, ebony, and ivory.

 

However, in the middle of the greenhouse, is an enormous stone pond, its serene surface reflecting both the moon and the stars with clarity. Enormous leaves of a lily float on the surface of the pond, and Charles walks over to stand by it.

 

“I think it’s most beautiful at night,” admits Charles softly. He thinks his breath ruffles a few glossy leaves to his left; they ripple slightly, moonlight dancing on their smooth surfaces. He points to the ceiling, past the glass panes and into the black sky, where he traces imaginary constellations with his fingers. “I’m afraid I don’t know any, but they’re always nice to look at.”

 

When Charles glances at Erik, however, the other boy stares into the pond, at the stars reflected in there. His cheekbones are highlighted by the moonlight, emphasizing the shadows underneath, casting darkness underneath his chin.

 

Charles moves towards Erik, steps close so that there’s less than a foot of space between them, and for a moment, the two of them stare into the pond. And then, Charles releases a small noise, a soft one from the back of his throat, looks up to see Erik staring right back at him.

 

“Thank you,” Erik says, tilts his head slightly to the side.

 

“What for?” Charles rasps. He wishes he had more butterbeer now.

 

“For showing me this,” Erik says. He leans forward, knees pressing against the stone sides of the pond, looking down into the water. After a moment, he rightens himself, looks back at Charles. “It’s beautiful.”

 

Erik takes a step closer then, his eyes dark and intense, and Charles thinks of a snake slithering through the grass, up to its prey. “Oh,” Charles hears himself say, and the air is sweltering around them.

 

Erik takes another step, one foot in between Charles’ legs, and Charles draws a blank, his thoughts melting into nothing but anticipation _._

 

Time slows for a moment, stretching into something slow and languid and unhurried, dissipating into the warm air, leaving nothing but Charles and Erik and the stars waiting in the greenhouse. Charles doesn’t know which of them moves first, but it feels inevitable, unavoidable, as they lean in – just two shadows in the dark – to press their dry mouths together.

 

For a moment, all Charles can hear is his own heart pounding in his chest, frantic and scared, the loud thump thump thump reverberating in his ribcage, up his throat, in his head and his ears. _I’m kissing Erik Lehnsherr_ , Charles thinks faintly, and for what it’s worth, presses his mouth more firmly against Erik’s, squeezes his eyelids together even tighter.

 

Erik’s mouth is warm underneath Charles’, his lips unbelievably soft and Charles steps closer then. _Just this once,_ a voice in Charles’ head murmurs. Charles lets his eyes flutter shut, wraps his hands around Erik’s neck.

 

Erik pulls back what feels like a millisecond later later, his hands coming around to plant themselves on Charles’ waist and everything feels unbelievably slow, the world drenched in moonlight and the stars twinkling on the glass walls around them, on the still water next to them, in the sky above. Charles blinks his eyes open and feels a series of things: the starchy material of Erik’s collar rasping against his throat, Erik’s palms hot on his waist, the hairs at the back of Erik’s neck soft under Charles’ fingers, the sultry air of the greenhouse soaking him in warmth.

 

“Mind if I do that again?” Erik asks, and Charles sees Erik’s eyelashes brush against his cheeks – _Christ_ , they’re so long –

 

_No_ , Charles thinks frantically, _we really shouldn’t,_ but his traitorous mouth betrays him with a breathless, “ _yes_ ,” and then _“yes yes yes_ ,” as Erik tightens his grip on Charles’ waist, pulls him in so that their hips slot easily together. And Charles lets out a warm sigh as Erik leans in once more, presses his lips against Charles’.

 

Charles’ hands travel up the back of Erik’s neck, reveling in the long strands of his hair, fingers burying themselves at the crown of his head. Erik takes another step forward then, walking Charles backwards into the glass wall of the greenhouse behind them. Erik’s tongue skims along the bottom of Charles’ lip, wet and tantalizing, and Erik groans, a deep sound, throaty sound that Charles feels in his chest, and Charles – oh God, Charles can’t even try to resist – parts his mouth in invitation.

 

Charles tightens his fingers in Erik’s hair, his head spinning, trying not to whimper when Erik’s mouth is so unbelievably wet and slick in his, their kiss turning sloppy quickly as Erik crowds Charles into the warm glass panes behind him, their tongues meeting in a warm, delicious mess.

 

A soft whimper escapes from Charles’ mouth as Erik takes another step forward; Charles is entirely pushed up against the warm glass now, heat soaking his robes, Erik’s chest pressing firmly against his. Charles would be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined this before; he has, early in the morning when his thoughts still hang between consciousness and sleep, like lanterns floating between the earth and the sky.

 

But his thoughts are softer, more subdued than this: this is raw and wet and _real_ and Charles never wants to stop.

 

Charles makes a throaty noise when Erik swirls his tongue; Erik withdraws from Charles’ mouth and it feels impossibly easy for Charles to lean his head back, allowing Erik to drag his mouth down the column of Charles’ throat, Erik’s lips latching onto the skin of Charles’ collarbone and beginning to work a bruise there, Charles’ fingers still entwined tight in his hair.

 

“Erik,” Charles breathes, and his voice is low and needy as Erik lavishes Charles’ skin with his tongue. Something delicious shoots up Charles’ spine when Erik begins to add a hint of teeth, and Charles jerks backwards instinctively, head colliding with the glass pane behind him.

 

Charles lets out a yelp of pain, and a snort erupts out of Erik’s throat as Charles releases his hair. “Christ,” Erik breathes, slightly humorously, “Are you alright?”

 

Even as Erik speaks, his fingers still run down the skin of Charles’ neck, thumb dragging down his collar to expose Charles’ collarbones and Charles shivers under Erik’s intense gaze.

 

“We have to,” Charles pants, eyes still watering slightly, “Have to go, the caretaker makes his rounds at twelve-thirty – ” but Erik wraps one of his hands around Charles’ neck, his calluses cool against Charles’ skin and Charles can’t help but lean up eagerly into another kiss, swaying into Erik’s touch.

 

Erik makes a pleased noise at this, tilting his head to allow Charles better access to his mouth, wrapping a long arm around Charles’ back and pulling them tight together. As he arches his spine up to meet Erik’s kiss, Charles feels intoxicated, his mind buzzing pleasantly, and all he can think is _I can’t stop can’t stop can’t stop_ –

 

Charles feels ridiculously warm, what with the steamy glass panes behind him, Erik’s chest molding into his, their thick layered dress robes capturing every iota of heat, keeping it between their bodies, their heated tongues slipping and sliding into each other’s mouths.

 

“Charles,” Erik pulls away to pant his name, and Charles’ toes curl in his dress shoes. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to – ”

 

He breaks off when Charles leans in once more, seeking the wet heat of Erik’s mouth again. Erik acquiesces easily, lips parting eagerly.

 

Erik kisses with intensity, his palm cradling Charles’ neck and his other hand tightening around Charles’ waist, his entire body molding Charles against the glass, which makes it even more difficult for Charles to pull back abruptly. As he ends their kiss, Charles opens his eyes in time to see moonlight glinting off of Erik’s wet lips.

 

“We have to go,” Charles rasps, and his heart still beats frantically in his chest. He feels his hands clenching into fists and his head spins with vertigo.

 

Erik makes a noise of agreement but his eyes are fixed on Charles’ mouth, and Charles pants, “ _Erik_.”

 

“Erik,” Charles tries again, and it feels as though someone else is talking; it sounds as though they’re underwater, “You have to go around the castle, and then down to the lake, so no one will see you.”

 

Erik blinks and then leans in. Erik presses his lips against Charles’ once more, in final farewell, says breathlessly, “See you then,” and something akin to dread gnaws Charles’ chest.

 

“Oh my god,” Charles whimpers when he hears the greenhouse door shut behind Erik. He reaches up with one hand to touch his lip – still wet to the touch. “What have I done?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! Thank you all for still coming back to reading and comment <3


	8. The Second Task

Everything feels oddly surreal as Charles slips back into the front entrance. He avoids the professors still clearing out the Great Hall as he stealthily makes his way up the grand staircase. His limbs move automatically, muscles clenching reflexively to keep from making any noise as he sweeps up the Ravenclaw tower stairs. His heart pounds in his chest.

 

When he enters the common room, he sees Darwin still slumped on a couch, one hand curled around a frosty butterbeer, the other tapping arrhythmically on his kneecap.

 

“Look who crept in,” Darwin murmurs, raising his beer in salutation. “What were you doing out so late?”

 

Charles slides into a fat armchair closest to the fire, eagerly rubbing his hands in front of the flame. “Oh, you know.” He waves a vague hand. His cheeks still sting from the chill. Time speeds and slows of its own accord; Charles feels oddly disconnected, as if it were all an out-of-body experience. Bits of the night float back to him in arbitrary pieces: the curl of a pale palm around a frosty glass of butterbeer, the dark turrets of Hogwarts castle digging into the sky, the perfectly pressed crease of a dark pair of dress robes.

 

Darwin hoots loudly, sitting upright to ask incredulously, “Really?”

 

Charles blinks dumbly. “What?”

 

“Charles Xavier,” Darwin shakes his head disbelievingly and Charles feels as though he’s missing something. “Head Boy, the smartest student at Hogwarts, sneaking out to _get some_!” Darwin hoots once more and Charles feels a blush rising high on his cheeks.

 

“No, I – ” he begins to protest, but can’t think of anything to say. His brain refuses to cooperate with him, and his thoughts melt into nothingness.

 

Darwin, however, nods easily, smiles and slumps his head back, letting out a sigh of contentment.

 

Charles abruptly remembers Alex and Darwin heading into the gardens well before the Yule Ball was over. “I trust the ball went well for you then.”

 

“Me? Yeah.” Darwin chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “Hell yeah.”

 

For a minute, both the fire and Darwin’s words warm Charles’ belly, sloshing with his own personal contentment in a dangerously addicting cocktail.

 

But then, Darwin remarks, “I don’t know about Hank though.”

 

Charles breathes out a long sigh, nods understandingly. “He didn’t say anything to her, did he?”

 

Darwin shrugs. “They’ll figure it out.” Some time passes before Darwin finally rises, claps Charles on the shoulder and says, “Don’t stay up too late,” and then he’s gone, the common room silent save for the crackling of the fire and Charles’ own breathing.

 

Charles sits there for a moment, thinking of nothing really, before the reality of it all sinks in.

 

“Oh my God,” Charles breathes out, slumping back into the chair.

 

Charles’ mind replays the scene in the greenhouse, over and over again, and Charles stares blankly into the fire, seeing nothing but warm glass and thick robes and Erik’s mouth on his. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat.

 

And then he thinks of how the Beauxbatons girls had blushed so readily in front of Erik, the way he’d talked so easily to Maha’s sister. _They only like him because he’s famous_ , Raven’s voice rings in his head.

 

But it isn’t that, Charles thinks to himself. No, it isn’t the fame at all; it’s the way Erik flips through Charles’ essay gingerly, so as not to crinkle the parchment. It’s the way Erik is so persistent, so determined, and Charles realizes that he wants Erik who plays chess, Erik, who reads Shakespeare, Erik, who for some unfathomable reason, enjoys history.

 

“Oh my God,” Charles says again.

 

-

 

The next morning, he’s rushing down the hall, running late to breakfast, purposefully pushing all thoughts of anything out of his mind. To keep his thoughts from wandering where they don’t need to be, Charles runs through several ancient runes in his mind, carefully thinking of nothing but their stroke order.

 

He’s striding down the first floor corridor when someone calls his name.

 

“Charles?”

 

Moira rushes up to him, cheeks pink, a newspaper article clutched in her hand.

 

“Moira,” Charles greets her. “Did you have a nice time  – ”

 

Before he can finish his sentence, however, Moira grabs his arm, forcibly dragging him into a nearby courtyard. She sits him down on the bench, stuffs the newspaper into his lap.

 

A colored photograph of Charles and Erik in Honeydukes heads a short piece by Emma Frost entitled, “ _Charles Xavier’s Secret Heartache_?”

 

Charles blanches, but continues reading nonetheless.

 

_Charles Xavier, Head Boy and Hogwarts champion, was spotted last weekend in Hogsmeade with Erik Lehnsherr, the Bulgarian Seeker and Durmstrang champion, as the two strolled through the wizarding village on a picturesque excursion. A friendly trip? Or could there be something more between the two? Sources have revealed_ –

 

“I’m not really sure what to say to this,” Charles admits, looking up to see Moira, who stares at him eagerly.

 

“When I came back to the table with Maha, you two were gone,” she trails off suggestively, leaning in.

 

“It’s not,” Charles sighs, readjusting his grip on the paper and turning to face Moira fully. “I’m not sure – ”

 

“Just tell me what happened,” Moira says earnestly, and it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his chest as he explains to her their walk through the rose gardens, their walk to the greenhouse, and inevitably, what took place inside.

 

Moira’s eyes are wide, her mouth hanging open when Charles finishes hastily, “But I’m worried, Moira, I don’t know if he actually wants – ”

 

“Don’t you dare,” she snaps her mouth shut, clasping Charles’ shoulder firmly, “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Charles, I saw how he was looking at you during dinner last night – ”

 

“But that’s the thing!” Charles protests, “He could give anyone that look and they’d fall all over him – ”

 

“He’s _not_ ,” Moira counters, “He’s not giving that look to _anyone_ other than you! You like him, and he obviously likes you; honestly, I don’t know why you’re being so reluctant about the whole thing.”

 

And, as good as a friend Moira is, Charles doesn’t think she will ever understand just how large a shadow the Xavier surname is, how Charles spent the first two years at Hogwarts working to get his professors to simply call him _Charles_ , rather than Xavier.

 

Something on Moira’s expression softens.

 

“I have to prove it, Moira, don’t you see?” Charles says a little desperately; he wants so badly for her to understand. “I have to prove to the world that I’m here, I’m Head Boy because of what I’ve done, not because I’m an _Xavier_. And so I have to make sure that, well,” Charles frowns, “Erik likes me for _me_. That I’m not just some,” he waves a vague hand, “Some conquest, or a fan at his feet.”

 

And then Moira’s sighing, muttering “Oh, Charles,” under her  breath.

 

“Oh Charles what,” Charles can’t help but snap. He sighs, the sudden anger bleeding out of him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, I just – ”

 

“He wants you for _you_ , Charles,” Moira says softly, her mouth curled into something small and sweet. Charles likes the way she says his name: without pity and without sympathy.

 

“I suppose,” Charles breathes out, his breath condensing in the air. When he was younger, he used to spend hours in the mansion garden, breathing out hot air and watching it condense, pretending that those billowing fumes were those of a dragon’s.

 

Charles shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. I’m just – ”

 

Moira pats his shoulder good-naturedly. “Midterms do that to everyone, Charles, I thought you’d’ve known by now.”

 

 Charles smiles but thinks that as good as Moira is, she will never understand the constant burn in his stomach, the aching desire for validation ever present in his veins.

 

“Now come on,” Moira says, interrupting his thoughts. She tugs on his arm. “Let’s go down to breakfast, I’m starving.”

 

Thankfully, as they head down to the Great Hall, Moira begins discussing a particularly wonderful trip to Hogsmeade with Sean, and Charles is all too eager to jump on the new topic.

 

They’re still chatting animatedly when they arrive in the Great Hall. To their left, a throng of Durmstrang students talks loudly over their breakfast. Charles adjusts his bookbag over his shoulder as they begin to walk between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables.

 

“Charles!” someone calls from somewhere to the left and Charles turns around swiftly, a polite greeting ready on the tip of his tongue when he realizes the call came from the middle of the crowded table, from none other than Erik Lehnsherr, who sits in the midst of it all.

 

Charles settles for a rushed, “Hello.” He thinks Moira turns abruptly away but he doesn’t look around to make sure.

 

“Are you busy?” Erik asks, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, glancing over Charles’ pushed-back hair, his fat book bag, and Charles thinks that maybe the whole hall has stopped to listen to their exchange.

 

“Well – ” Charles begins, belatedly realizing that if Erik decides to pursue the topic of last night, Charles hasn’t the faintest idea of what to say.

 

Erik excuses himself from the table, stepping around a throng of admirers decked in Bulgarian merchandise. “Are you busy?” Erik repeats.

 

“No,” Charles says stupidly, gaze flitting over Erik’s stupidly perfect mouth before darting back up. “No, why? Did you want – uh,” he clears his throat, “Did you want to talk?”

 

“Yes,” Erik breathes, and he’s wearing a tight-fitting black turtleneck that Charles finds very difficult to look away from. “If you can.”

 

“Of course,” Charles says, hyperaware of the gaze of the entirety of Erik’s abandoned entourage, and essentially the rest of the hall, watching the two of them as they step from the Great Hall. His stomach drops.

 

“Sorry,” Erik says, guides Charles down the mostly empty hallway with one hand at the small of his back. Charles allows a shiver to run down his spine. “I couldn’t say anything in front of them.”

 

And Charles’ stomach twists into a very ugly knot, but before he can say anything, Erik guides him into a hidden alcove, a little niche between the entrance hallway and a snowy courtyard.

 

“The lake,” Erik murmurs, “Have you been practicing?”

 

Erik’s eyes are dark and intense. The air between them feels as it always has; there’s always this delicious tension that curls thick in the air when they speak, an electric charge between them that always directs Charles’ gaze to Erik’s mouth.

 

“No,” Charles manages, hoping he doesn’t sound flustered, “But I should be fine, really, I appreciate your – ”

 

“The task is coming up, Charles,” Erik insists, stepping a little closer and Charles suddenly remembers last night with clarity: the feel of Erik’s tongue, his hands, his skin. “I know you have midterms and the Ministry applications, but you can’t forget about the Tournament.”

 

There’s suddenly a great swell of emotion in Charles’ chest: he thinks of his mother’s bluebells drooping in the summer sun, their sticky-sweet scent; he thinks of Erik’s fingers, long and pale and elegant, tracing mountains and valleys through the air; he thinks of inky Victorian water lilies floating on a pond of stars.

 

 Charles presses his lips into a line, averts his eyes to the students bustling down the hall.

 

“Listen,” Erik lowers his voice, “Charles, you’re nowhere near ready to stay in the lake for thirty minutes, let alone an hour.”

 

“Alright,” placates Charles. He turns to face Erik. “I’ve just finished midterms so we can head down to the lake this afternoon, alright?”

 

Erik reaches out with one hand in an aborted movement, as if he wants to touch the crook of Charles’ elbow, but the Hogwarts clock chimes then, and students begin to flood the corridors, their black robes swirling around their ankles, and Erik retracts his arm.

 

“Alright,” echoes Erik, and Charles thinks that it’s better if some things remained unsaid. He watches Erik turn and head back into the Great Hall.

 

Charles heads to class after that, his thoughts murky and tumultuous; he barely notices the sweltering heat of the potions’ classroom, absentmindedly tugs at his collar and scratches down a few haphazard notes. Charles isn’t sure what the etiquette is when your competitor-cum-companion kisses you at midnight – or was it Charles who had kissed Erik? It’s difficult for Charles to decide who had kissed whom – and then proceeds to act normally the next day.

 

And perhaps, Charles is simply making a big deal of this. Perhaps this – this thing between them isn’t so serious at all –

 

Well, then. Charles decides that if Erik chooses to say anything about it, Charles will say nothing as well; he has to remain composed and he has to play it cool.

 

But he doesn’t have long to ponder on the matter. A Slytherin student’s cauldron explodes and the class jolts into action, sparing Charles no time to think about anything else all.

 

Classes rush by, and after Potions, Charles is forced to pay attention and take notes in Transfigurations and Arithmetic. He stays behind in Arithmetic to ask the professor a question, and doesn’t descend the grand staircase until more than halfway into lunch. He scrambles for his things and skips lunch altogether, all but jogging out of the castle and toward the Black Lake.

 

-

 

“Sorry,” Charles is breathing heavily, his hair is disheveled, and his cheeks are flushed as he makes his way around the lake, to where Erik stands serenely, hands casually folded in the pockets of his Muggle trousers.

 

“It’s fine,” Erik says, and Charles wonders what he’s thinking of.

 

They strip with efficiency – and thank God Charles is already flushed from his rush to get to the lake – and Erik doesn’t hesitate before stepping into the water.

 

There’s a certain elegance to every one of his movements that Charles can’t help but admire: it’s the way Erik is so familiar with his body, his limbs always moving with such efficiency, never a movement wasted on dawdling.

 

“Come on, Charles,” Erik calls and Charles forces himself to wade into the lake, clenching his jaw so tightly he feels his muscles twitch. He concentrates on the feeling of pebbles underneath his feet, resolutely does not allow his body to give in to the cold, focused so intently that he doesn’t notice how deep he’s gone until Erik wraps an arm around Charles’ waist underwater.

 

“Jesus!” Charles breathes out, glances back to the shoreline to see it fading rapidly, the lake water welling up around his sternum.

 

“You’ll start to feel it soon,” Erik rasps, and Charles concentrates on Erik’s voice, the feeling of Erik’s arm solid around his waist. “And you have to concentrate, Charles, focus on your core.”

 

Charles hears a chattering sound, realizes abruptly that it’s his teeth, feels his ears beginning to ring. Erik growls, tugs Charles tighter and Charles blinks dumbly, realizes that Erik’s chest presses into his backside. “Right here,” Erik says, places a large hand low on Charles’ belly and the lake water laps at his neck. “A heating charm, cast it right here.”

 

Charles grips his wand tighter in his hand, fumbles for a moment before collecting himself, casts a heating spell right where Erik’s hand rests against his belly.

 

And then Charles gasps, “ _Christ!_ ” suddenly hit with the icy phalanges of the water that purl at his throat. “It’s freezing!”

 

“That’s good,” Erik murmurs. “It worried me that you didn’t feel it before.”

 

In comparison to the rest of his body, Charles’ stomach is warm, comfortable. As the heat emanates from his charm, Charles’ limbs slowly begin to twitch, regaining motion as his blood starts flowing once more.

 

“You couldn’t even feel the cold before,” Erik says and this is when Charles realizes how close they are, Erik’s chest pressed flush against Charles’ backside, barely enough room for water to flow between them. Charles’ toes grip the lakebed as he turns around to face Erik.

 

“You have to practice, concentrate on keeping the heat steady enough so that it flow throughout your body,” Erik answers, his hair slick back against his head and his eyelashes dripping. Charles nods, steadies himself for a moment before dunking his head under.

 

The lake is merciless, cold and unfeeling, freezing water clawing at his hair, at his eyes, in his ears, before Charles manages to yank himself up, gasping. “I can’t do that – I can’t do that for more than three seconds, Erik; I can’t do it for an hour, much less three!”

 

But Erik is laughing him, low and hearty and Charles can’t help but smile in response. “What?”

 

Erik shakes his head, his arm still around Charles’ waist, holding them tight so the current doesn’t push them away. “Most people would be back on shore by now, Charles. It’s not easy to keep the charm going and stay in the water.”

 

And Charles knows that they should talk about, about _things_ – Charles shouldn’t be diving headfirst into this, both figuratively and literally – but Erik is right here and Charles’ stomach is twisted into knots because he wants so badly.

 

“Well,” Charles lets his gaze linger on a fat water droplet sitting enticingly on Erik’s lip, “I’m not most people, am I?”

 

And Erik has no answer to that, not when Charles casts all his doubt aside and impulsively leans in to press his cold lips against Erik, wet and slow.

 

Charles cups one hand against Erik’s cheek as he kisses him slowly. Erik’s nose is cold against Charles’ cheek but Charles doesn’t care; the lake water swirls carelessly around them, tugging on Charles’ boxers, lapping eagerly against his chest and Charles revels in the smooth expanse of skin of Erik’s chest as it presses against his, their heating spells providing enough warmth to chase the chill away.

 

It feels strangely erotic as Erik runs one finger up Charles’ spine; Charles feels both the scrape of his nail and the ripple of cool water that follows, swirling patterns onto his skin.

 

As Charles cups Erik’s head – one hand around his cheek and the other around the back of his neck – Erik tilts his neck, just so that he can have better access into Charles’ mouth and Charles groans as Erik’s tongue slips into Charles’ mouth, hot and slick.

 

Charles tightens his grip on Erik, pulling himself closer, greedy for more, unwilling to allow the lake water steal more of their warmth. Their wet chests plaster together, and the current allows Charles to lift his legs without effort, wrap them easily around Erik’s waist, the skin at the back of Charles’ knees rasping against the waistband of Erik’s boxers.

 

Erik’s hands feel enormous as his palms span across Charles’ back, roaming up and down, warm and calloused in comparison to the soft whispering of lake water against Charles’ skin.

 

The lake is too slick, far too cold for them to do anything besides kiss, so Charles just presses his mouth harder against Erik to make up for it, their tongues and their spit and their saliva mixing in a wonderful, potent cocktail that makes Charles’ head spin.

 

When Erik finally pulls away, Charles can’t help the throaty groan that bubbles out of his chest. The cool air rushes in between their faces, a light zephyr kissing Charles’ cold lips, his freezing nose, his flushed cheeks.

 

“How romantic,” Charles grins at the sight of Erik’s red lips, the way his eyes are electric blue against the gloomy sky, his hair perfectly pushed back, still dripping with lake water. Charles’ thoughts are laced with the giddiness of a schoolboy – _how apt,_ he thinks wryly.

 

A smile tugs at Erik’s mouth as he looks up, and Charles turns his head as well, sees the black hills sloping down gently to meet the edges of the lake, the sky light and gray in comparison to the dark earth.

 

The cloudy, monochromatic sky reflects perfectly in the lake, although the choppy waters break the murky sky into a thousand pieces, refracting around them as Charles and Erik stand chest-deep in lake water. Charles imagines how they must’ve looked from the shoreline, two figures entwined, heads bobbing in the water as they kiss.

 

“Romantic, maybe,” acknowledges Erik, “But productive?” he raises a skeptical eyebrow and Charles lets out a loud laugh, the noise bouncing off the hills and the water, into the sky and back.

 

“What if the merpeople want a kiss?” Charles teases and Erik splashes cold water at him.

 

“Fine, fine,” Charles concedes, still chuckling as Erik releases him into the water. Charles ducks his head under once more, lets the lake drag him down down down.

 

-

 

Although Erik teaches Charles how to swim, it feels more and more like drowning with each passing day – homework piles on classwork piles on Ministry applications piles on the Triwizard Tournament. Charles is a whirlwind, rips through his work with efficiency.

 

But this leaves next to no time for him to think about anything else.

 

Charles thinks it’s better this way; he has no idea what to say to Erik about this – this thing they have. It’s something strange, something with no name, but for some reason it works, in the strange way that the two of them fit together.

 

Erik finds Charles in the library late at night, when the wall sconces flicker invitingly, their warm light dripping down the walls, fighting off the shadows. Sometimes Erik will sit close, in the seat right next to Charles, and when Charles asks him to hand over the Arithmancy textbook, their wrists will brush. And there is the same delicious tension, always present, but neither of them pursues it. Charles can never be sure of what Erik is thinking, but Charles for one remains reluctant to pursue anything further, caught up in his work and still always aware of the knot in his stomach. Erik doesn’t mention anything about _them_ , and so Charles follows suit, concentrates on his studies and resolutely ignores the conflagration in his belly every time Erik brushes his fingertips against Charles’ skin.

 

They spend other times at the lake; and other times, they’ll share breakfast together in the Great Hall, always cognizant of the other students around them, but they do not touch again, save for the occasional brush of the shoulders or hands.

 

There are no labels and no definitions; this is something organic and something growing. More than anything, it’s a friendship, Charles decides. A strange one, but one nonetheless.

 

The rest of January melts into days full of long classes and cold afternoons by the lake with Erik, although they never find the time to fool around like they did the first day. By the time February comes, Charles is able to maintain the charm for more than two hours, save for the times he bobs up for air.

 

At night, Charles finds himself in Ravenclaw’s store of eclectic books, reading through odd texts, attempting to find an answer to his question. He employs the help of Hank and Darwin, who both come armed with stacks of books to dump into the room the following day; Hank carries scholarly textbooks and Darwin clutches a stack of informative mythology.

 

Charles finds many answers. Some in Herbology textbooks, some in Hank’s scientific articles, and some from Darwin’s mythology books. However, none of the answers are to his liking; while some ways to breathe underwater are efficient, they provide no means of protection, and while some provide protection, they don’t offer a stable form of oxygen to last Charles the entirety of the task. Charles realizes that there are very deadly creatures in the lake; indeed, he postulates that the further down you go, the more dangerous it becomes – not only because of the change in atmospheric pressure and temperature, but because of the deep-dwelling animals as well.

 

January comes and goes in a blur of schoolwork and late evenings and electrifying touches.

 

The end of February arrives and Charles wakes one morning to Hank, who stands over him, shaking him from slumber.

 

Charles dresses slowly, movements groggy, heads down to the Great Hall for breakfast.

 

“Where’s Raven?” Charles asks and Darwin shrugs.

 

Once again, it seems as though Charles’ internal clock has been spun up one too many times; breakfast passes before Charles has the time to blink.

 

Charles furrows his eyes, rises to meet Professor Quested and follows him out of the Great Hall, down to the Black Lake. Hank follows quickly, murmuring to Charles all the while.

 

“Sound travels four times faster in water than it does in air,” Hank mutters, “Merpeople have particularly sensitive eardrums. Don’t let the Grindylows grab you because their grip is impossible to break.”

 

Charles laughs easily as a group of Hogwarts students walks by, chorusing their various iterations of ‘good luck.’ “I’ll be fine, Hank.”

 

The boy nods as Charles begins to part, heading towards the deck where the champions stand. Before Hank can leave however, Charles makes sure to dart in, grab his elbow and whisper lowly in his ear, “Thank you, Hank.”

 

“Well,” McCone’s magically amplified voice booms across the dark waters, “All our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely one hour to recover what has been taken from them. On the count of three, then. One… two… _three!_ ”

 

Charles stuffs the gillyweed into his mouth, tugging off his robes to reveal the swimming trunks underneath, wading out into the familiar chill of the lake. Charles sees Maha cast a Bubble Head charm, and Erik a bit further out, already diving into the water.

 

As soon as Charles submerges his head beneath the lake’s icy waves, Charles casts his warming charm, relishing the heat as he feels the piercing pain on either side of his neck as gills begin to emerge on either side of his neck.

 

Propelling into the depths of the lake easily, Charles feels the water rippling through his gills, pumping oxygen through his veins as he pushes forward, swimming deeper.

 

Once more, Raven’s words float back to him: _concentrate._

 

Even through the murky waters, Charles can see the outline of the lake’s vegetation, forests looming out of the darkness, made of tangled weeds; the sharp slopes of the lake leading deeper below, where the bottom of the lake must lie, and Charles swims rapidly, knows he has to make up time for the longer journey upwards, where he must pace himself so as to not suffer from the bends.

 

From underwater, the lake looks like a whole other galaxy, with its obscure waters breaking the light into eerie green shadows that resemble aurora borealis, silver fish darting back and forth like shooting stars zipping across a bottle-green sky.

 

Charles doesn’t have much time to appreciate it though, before a Grindylow emerges from behind a bed of weeds, snarling viciously.

 

_Sound travels four times faster in water than it does in air_ , Charles thinks, flicks his wand and sends the Grindylow back with the force of a loud bang.

 

The water pressure pushes against the thin membrane that’s grown over Charles’ ears, a dull, ringing ache against the rush of water. But other than that and the air that bubbles out of Charles’ mouth, the lake is eerily silent.

 

Time passes quickly as Charles easily maneuvers his way through the water. The current ripples underneath his fingers and his chin, swirling against his skin, and suddenly Charles thinks of the ancient gods who could control the sea.

 

Charles forces any unwanted attention away with a simple noise that echoes through the water, sound waves expanding to push out Grindylows and curious eels alike.

 

The world seems quieter here: the sounds, more subdued and muffled; the colors, muted and dull; the actions, soft and smooth and unhurried. Charles imagines a great leviathan, slumbering at the very bottom of the lake, soothed by its unearthly surroundings.

 

He ventures further into the lake, then abruptly whirls back quickly, feeling the cold rush of water against his gills, barely has time to recognize the broad shape of a shark’s tail before he sees the arms and the head attached to it.

 

Erik swims by smoothly, his body morphing smoothly into the body of the great white, fins coming out from his forearms, extending past his elbows, and his torso melting into the streamline body of an apex predator. Charles blinks and then Erik is gone, fading into the murky waters already.

 

_Concentrate_.

 

Charles pushes himself forward, propelling through the obscure lake as he approaches what he thinks to be the home of the merfolk – a jagged outcrop of rocks is crudely shaped into something that resembles a dirt pueblo, except stone, and bigger, and underwater.

 

They’ve come to the center of the lake now, Charles thinks, because the dark floor of the lake slopes down into a valley-like formation. At the base of the dip is the outcrop of rocks. Surrounding the merpeople’s homes are enormous patches of seaweed, like a curtain around the enormous stone dwellings.

 

Most of the merfolk are already congregated in a blockade in front of their stone home, tentacle-like hair thrashing violently in the water as they point their rusty tridents at Maha, hissing vehemently. They’re deep enough that only fragments of sunlight refract through the water. Charles catches only glimpses of Maha and the merpeople – the glint of pale light on the metal shaft of a trident, sunlight reflecting off of tooth and bone, the flash of a spell – from behind the shifting curtain of seaweed. In the darkness of the lakewater, Charles has to squint to see.

 

A few merfolk wait cautiously by their homes, jaws gaping open to reveal yellow teeth and forked tongues. Their brown hair billows out behind them, rippling with the current. Their hooked fingers curl around tridents; Charles can barely make out the thin skin that fans out between their fingers in the dark lighting.

 

A muffled screech fills the air and Charles turns his head back to look at Maha.

 

_Concentrate_.

 

A protective bubble encases the Beauxbatons champion, a shield of some sort, Charles thinks. He watches behind a growth of weeds as she shoots a bright beam of light at the merpeople, their eyes constricting as they snarl and back away. The light only seems to hold them for so long, however, as Charles sees Maha swim down quickly, ducking underneath the merpeople to swim through a water adobe.

 

Quickly, Charles swims around to the back of the rocky outcrop, careful to stay behind the curtain of seaweed, catches a glance of Erik snarling at the merpeople, fighting through them with brute force, light flashing from his wand.

 

As he heads around the back of the merfolk dwelling, Charles shoots a few waves of sound to the stray merpeople that cluster around the back, skirting around the stone dwelling to see a large rope dangling from the back of the adobe, wrapped around a square window and running back to the stone slopes of the lakeside. He can feel the strain on his eyes as he continues to squint in the dim light.

 

Charles sees three figures bound tightly to the rope, but his gaze immediately zeroes in on Raven, tied between a boy from Durmstrang and another girl from Beauxbatons. He’s partially hidden by the seaweed still, a good fifteen meters from the edge of the stone dwelling, but he kicks his webbed feet anyway, propelling himself forward.

 

That’s when he feels it.

 

For half a second, the lakewater parts smoothly underneath Charles’ touch, rippling underneath his skin and his gills.

 

Then, there’s an abrupt jerk as Charles suddenly is yanked backwards – something cold and spongy wraps around his ankle and Charles’ stomach flips as the world blurs into green shadows.

 

He curls around wildly, mouthing “ _Bombarda_!” before even registering the presence of the giant squid.

 

For all of the tales that Charles has heard of the giant squid, all descriptions pale in comparison to its enormous, alien eyes and mottled purple skin in real life – Charles catches a glimpse of its gargantuan beak snapping shut before writhing furiously, bubbles pouring from his mouth as he yells and shouts, his sounds blurred and muted in the water.

 

Charles’ pulse roars in his ears and his movements turn frantic as he thrashes; the squid tightens its grip on Charles’ ankle. Charles can only see one giant eye from where he’s twisted around, but it blinks inquisitively. There’s a loud snap as the squid clicks its beak together, and Charles feels the rush of water around him as he’s pulled in closer. A slippery tentacle reaches up to grab at Charles’ waist.

 

“ _Bombarda_!” Charles shouts once more and he twists his wrist so that the spell fires right at the squid’s eye –

 

And Charles immediately  propels himself forward, automatically lashing out at the merfolk that follow him from behind. There’s another, softer click and Charles glances back past a hoard of merpeople to see the giant squid propelling away.

 

His pulse quickens under his skin as Charles fires, spells bubbling from his mouth. His eyes strain with his efforts to see and his muscles ache with exhaustion; the merpeople keep streaming from their stone home. He catches a glimpse of Maha swimming by, grabbing the Beauxbatons girl easily. Charles blasts away the last of the merpeople, turns around to shoot a spell at the rope holding Raven.

 

He sees the enormous shark swimming up once more, snatching around the rope holding the Durmstrang boy and propelling upwards.

 

Charles shoots one last wave of sound at the merpeople, scowling to himself as he darts up to snatch Raven, and then swims after Erik and Maha. His muscles ache as he swims up, eyes straining as he struggles with the extra weight of Raven as well as his own body. Around them is a forest of swaying kelp; Charles deliriously wonders if they’re even swimming upwards; his ears seem to be clogged with water and his equilibrium is thrown off –

 

Suddenly Charles’ eyes droop; his breathing becomes ragged as he kicks unsteadily. It feels as though the skin of his face and his chest are being pulled down with gravity; suddenly it becomes difficult for Charles to breathe –

 

His chest heaves as he struggles to breathe; his fingers are curled so tight around Raven’s shoulders it feels as though he’s digging into her skin; the webbing around Charles’ toes thin out and he feels the water rippling through his toes.

 

Around him, the lakewater becomes lighter and Charles realizes that they’re finally getting closer to the surface –

 

Finally, after what seems like an infinity, Charles finally bursts up, lungs nearly bursting as the gillyweed effects wear off, the cold air hitting him like a slap in the face.

 

What happens next is a blur – Charles bobbing out of the water, Raven gasping for breath and someone hauling up the two of them, onto the shore; Charles, cold as he clutches at the pebbles on the shore, blinking rapidly as someone places a blanket over him, watching the mediwizards all scramble over themselves trying to help.

 

The cold air stings his throat and his lungs but feels wonderfully fresh; on land, the sounds are so much crisper and clearer, the colors vibrant enough to make Charles’ eyes water.

 

Charles blinks and there’s a mediwizard squatting on the pebbled shore, speaking animatedly to his companion while waving his wand in the general direction of Charles’ calves. White ribbons of bandages are flowing from the tip of the mediwizard’s wand, wrapping themselves around the angry splotches painted on Charles’ ankles.

 

There are stands erected on the lakeside shore but Charles pays them no mind.

 

“Raven,” he gasps, his voice hoarse, and he doesn’t pose it as a question but the mediwizard helping him looks up and points to the left.

 

Raven chatters animatedly with Maha and the Durmstrang boy. She glances back at that moment and waves cheerfully at Charles. Charles shakes his head and wills himself to stop losing fragments of time. A little further ways off, the throng of headmistresses discusses something heatedly.

 

The air is chilly and stings, but Charles barely registers it. “A shark?” he asks, craning his head up as Erik, fully human, pads over to where Charles sits on the shore.

 

Erik’s lips turn upwards at that, and the pebbles clatter as the Durmstrang champion sits down next to Charles.

 

“Electroreception,” Erik says, “Little sensors on the skin to allow them to detect earth’s magnetic field.” A breeze wafts by and Charles shivers a bit. By Maha and Raven stands the Durmstrang boy that Erik had rescued. Charles feels a little flare of excitement in his gut when he realizes that the two of them – Erik and Charles – sit a good distance from the rest of the champions and judges.

 

“Ampullae of Lorenzini,” Charles turns to him, breathing heavily still. “Detecting the electric currents?”

 

Erik nods.

 

Charles snorts. “Metal chains with the Nundu, and now magnetic fields to swim to the bottom of a lake?”

 

“I like metal,” Erik smiles, leaning slightly to the right so that their shoulders brush companionably. Charles feels oddly removed, as if he’s watching through a screen.

 

When the wind picks up, he begins to shiver violently, knuckles going white as he clenches the blanket. On the other side of the shore, Charles can see where the students from the three schools wait to hear the scores. Charles remarks, “That was a clever bit of Transfiguration, you know?”

 

Erik shrugs. “Brute strength. No finesse in that.”

 

“Still,” Charles wants to say more but the mediwizard interrupts. “All done,” he says cheerfully. Charles had forgotten he was even there. “Just some Pepperup Potion for the two of you and you should be set.”

 

“Thank you,” Charles says again, his teeth chattering.

 

“Feeling alright?” the wizard frowns, and Charles nods shakily, taking the Pepperup Potion eagerly and downing it.

 

“Jesus,” he breathes, as he feels the potion’s effects tingling in his belly and his chest.

 

“You look a little peaky, Mr. Xavier,”  the mediwizard continues frowning, and before Charles can protest, Erik jumps in.

 

“I can take him back to the castle. He’s been shivering ever since he got out of the water.”

 

“Oh, would you, Mr. Lehnsherr? Yes, I think that’d be for the best… ” the mediwizard trails off, his gaze turning towards Maha.

 

“Of course,” Erik says smoothly and Charles wants to say that he’s fine, really, but the mediwizard scuttles off, a bit like a crab, leaving Erik and Charles and the wind.

 

Pebbles clatter as Erik rises, proffering a hand to Charles to help him up. “Some warmth will you do good,” Erik says.

 

Charles nods, pulling his blanket tighter around himself.

 

“Come on,” Erik says, wrapping a long arm around Charles’ waist.

 

And Erik tugs on Charles so easily, casually pulling them closer to each other so really, Charles has no other choice but to loosen himself into Erik’s touch.

 

Charles keeps up a steady stream of observations about the food chain in the Black Lake as they walk back to the castle, Erik’s chest warm where it plasters against Charles’ shoulder. Almost subconsciously, Charles winds an arm around Erik’s shoulders, doesn’t stop talking once as they wander up to the castle.

 

Erik’s grip around Charles’ tightens as they enter through the front doors, and even as they walk in – Charles’ feet freezing in his cold socks and shoes – they can hear McCone’s amplified voice, carrying across the grounds.

 

As McCone calls out the scores in his booming voice, Charles mentally calculates their cumulative scores, from both the first and second event.

 

“You and I are tied,” Charles turns to Erik, whose lips are moving as – Charles assumes – he calculates as well.

 

“And Maha five points ahead of us both,” Erik agrees. Charles thinks that maybe he should care more about the points and the scores, but he’s exhausted, both physically and mentally, from the last few weeks.

 

From the entranceway, Charles can just barely hear McCone’s last words. “The third and final task will take place on the twenty-fourth of June. The champions will be notified of what is coming the day of the task. Thank you all for your support of the champions.”

 

Charles directs them to the infirmary. “Don’t know if anyone will be here though,” Charles remarks, “Seeing as they’re all down by the lake still.”

 

The two of them pad into the infirmary, their shoes squelching on the stone floor. A warm shock of adrenaline suddenly rushes through Charles.

 

True to his word, the infirmary is deserted – as is the rest of the castle – when Charles and Erik meander in, one of Charles’ arm still slung comfortably around Erik’s neck. Which is why, as Erik starts to help Charles into one of the cots, Charles impulsively drags Erik down with him, wrapping two arms around the back of Erik’s neck to pull him in for a cold kiss.

 

It’s their third kiss, but it still sends a jolt through Charles’ nerves; their noses are freezing cold where they press against each other but Erik’s lips are warm against Charles’.

 

Erik protests for a moment, but when Charles runs his tongue along the bottom of Erik’s lip, he gives in, leaning over Charles to let Charles’ tongue slip into his parted mouth. And God, Erik’s tongue is gloriously hot in Charles’ mouth.

 

Charles grins into the kiss, scooting back on the cot, and dragging Erik with him so that Erik has to crawl forward on the bed, and, _that’s attractive_ , Charles thinks to himself, runs his hands eagerly up Erik’s back as Erik proceeds to kiss him thoroughly.

 

Erik runs one hand down Charles’ chest purposefully, fingering at Charles’ robe as if he wants to pull it off and something in Charles’ stomach lurches with anticipation. He groans into Erik’s mouth just as Erik’s hand slips underneath the folds of his robes.

 

As Erik’s hand slides determinedly up Charles’ thigh, however, they hear a loud clamoring as students spill into the castle, filling the corridors with a loud, incessant chattering.

 

Charles jerks back quickly. Erik lurches back as well, coughing inconspicuously, to stand at the foot of Charles’ cot as mediwizards stream into the infirmary, rushing around both Charles and Erik to ask if they feel okay.

 

Charles grins at Erik over the top of one of the mediwitches’ heads and Erik quirks his lips back, the two of them lost in each other even with the distance between them.

 

-

 

“I saw you, you know,” a loud voice interrupts Charles as he washes his hands in the prefects’ bathroom that evening.

 

“ _Bloody hell_ , Sebastian!” Charles curses, nearly banging his head against the mirror in front of which he washes his hands. “Would you stop that?”

 

Charles glares in the mirror at the ghost, who sits unashamedly on a toilet seat in an open stall. “Saw me where?” The faucet drips slowly onto the sink. _Drip. Drip._

 

“In the lake,” Sebastian says, his tone bored, “With the handsome one, Erik.”

 

“During the task?” Charles frowns.

 

_Drip. Drip drip._

 

“No,” Sebastian floats out of the toilet to hover by Charles. “Before.”

 

Charles casts his mind back. The only time he and Erik were at the lake was when –

 

“You know, he’s rather handsome,” Shaw looks pointedly at Charles. “And he’s famous.”

 

“I know,” snaps Charles waspishly, turning to leave the lavatory when Shaw calls out, “You can’t possibly think he really likes you.”

 

It feels as though someone has brought a hammer to the middle of Charles’ chest, shattering his ribs into a thousand shards.

 

“You’re just another Xavier,” Sebastian floats after Charles, “Another rich, spoiled Pureblood brat,” and Charles snarls, “Shut up,” but Sebastian’s words ring in Charles’ chest, reverberating in his ribcage, exacerbating the ugly, festering wound in Charles belly.

 

_Drip drip drip._

 

“Is he after your money?” Sebastian sneers. Charles’ veins turn ice cold and the edges of his vision blur. “I heard that’s why he switched from the German Quidditch team to the Bulgarian one, Charles, you better look out – ”

 

“I said, shut up!” Charles whirls around and Sebastian’s mouth is twisted into an ugly line.

 

“He only ever wanted you for the Xavier inheritance,” Sebastian shakes his head morosely. “He’s Erik Lehnsherr, for Christ’s sake, Charles, he could have anyone!”

 

Charles’ hands are balled into fists at his sides, his bones shaking with anger, with fury, with dread.

 

“At least you’ve got the money to make up for everything else,” Sebastian sighs, and swoops back into his toilet with a soft splash of water.

 

Charles’ heart pounds in his chest; his lungs constrict suddenly and his skin feels like it’s freezing –

 

_They only like him because he’s famous_ –

 

He grabs onto the sink and yanks on the faucet. Steaming water pours out and Charles splashes it onto his face.

 

_He wants you for_ you –

 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, soft and low, like a confession. His skin is flushed from the hot water and his eyes are bleary when Charles looks up in the mirror.

 

When Charles leaves the bathroom a while later, the faucet still drips sadly onto the porcelain sink.

 


	9. Wizard's Chess, Again

For most of Charles’ life, he has been bedrock.

 

He has been unchanging and unwavering, stubborn and persistent in his determination to become the best he can be. There has always been that base desire in Charles’ chest, in the space between the slick curve of his heart and the bars of his ribs, a desire to validate himself.

 

He has grown in the shadow of his father and his mother and his stepfather and his inheritance, their reputations combined into a river, each entity a rivulet coming together to stream over Charles. At first, when he is a boy, it is a gentle brook, meandering through his life; it’s always there but it’s never an impetuous force. Charles, like many children his age at the time, loves to play in the stream, letting the lazy current ripple through his fingers and toes, cooling his sunkissed skin. In school, he gets many free passes. As a child, he has many things the other children do not: little Edward at the elementary school complains, “Mum, look! Charles has Nimbus 2000, I want one too!” and Sarah says, “How come he can have nice dress robes and I can’t? Da, I want the nice green ones, oh pretty please?”

 

But as Charles ages, the river grows in strength, pulsing and purling as Charles realizes just how renowned the Xavier family is.

 

He can’t go anywhere without someone stopping him. In Diagon Alley, Madelyn from the bookshop calls out, “Morning, Mr. Xavier! Tell your mother I said hello!” and Mister Jones shouts across the Leaky Cauldron, “My boy! Charlie! How’ve you been?”

 

And while it’s nice to exchange these pleasantries, sometimes it’s horrifically obvious when someone tries to ingratiate him or herself with the family. “I hope your mother’s well. She did say she’d have me over some time so we could meet with the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic,” or, “I’ve saved a nice room for you, Charlie! Up on the third floor, your favorite, I know. Say, did you ever get those tickets to the World Cup? Heard you’re sitting up in the box area, eh?”

 

So you see, Charles has to do _something_ to stand up to it; it just so happens that he chooses to be charming and likeable, smart and clever and hardworking. Charles, unrelenting, persistent, and stubborn, is bedrock.

 

More than that though, Charles has a longing to prove himself. He wants to prove that he’s worthy of being in the Wizarding World. Because  he grew up in the shadows, underneath the shade of the willow tree that grows alongside the river, he wants to validate himself, prove to himself that he deserves being here! He needs to know that he _deserves_ being Head Boy, not that he got it just because he’s an Xavier. He wants to be known as Charles, his own person and not an Xavier, not another faceless descendant of a Pureblood family.

 

And now Charles is here, in the Triwizard Tournament.

 

For the first time in a long while, Charles feels the strength of the river around him, tugging at his clothes and his hair, pooling into his ears and his open mouth; the river is _hungry_ , and for so long, Charles has been bedrock. Now, he begins to give. He feels the alluvium and the topsoil slipping by; his grip loosens and the river takes everything he gives.

 

How can Erik possibly like him? And if he does genuinely like Charles, does he genuinely enjoy the Xavier bloodline? What does he want from Charles?

 

His whole life, Charles has been surrounded by people, their eyes dull and their handshakes limp, like this, and now that he’s found someone, the same doubts begin creeping in. And, moreover, Charles entered this competition to validate himself, not to find some hapless love in a foreign student.

 

Charles is bedrock. He must be.

 

-

 

“Look at this,” demands Moira.

 

There’s a loud plop and Charles jolts, the metal of his spoon clacking loudly against his golden bowl of porridge.

 

“Christ, Moira,” swears Charles.

 

As she shoves the newspaper closer, she repeats, “Look!”

 

Charles glances at the headline. _Charles Xavier and his_ –

 

“No,” says Charles.

 

“Oh, but there’s a photo of you and Erik, look, look at how – ”

 

At that moment, the door to the Great Hall creaks open, and a crowd of students rushes in. One glance allows Charles to catch a glimpse of Bulgarian scarves.

 

“Got to go,” says Charles, patting Moira on the shoulder.

 

“Charles,” she begins, but Charles is already striding around the Ravenclaw table so as to avoid the crowd. He waves his hand in the air without looking back.

 

-

 

Time flies after the second task, as Charles’ exit exams barrel toward him with ferocity. He finds himself holed up in the Head Boy dormitory more often than not, working quickly to finish the work that he’s left undone prior to the second task.

 

It works surprisingly well for the first few weeks – not many people know about the Head Boy dormitory, and so most nights, the room fills with quiet, save for the scratch of Charles’ quill on his parchment.

 

That is, until Raven comes.

 

“Who are you avoiding?” she demands, without preamble.

 

Charles looks up delicately from his application to the Ministry of Magic. “Pardon?”

 

“Oh, don’t do that to me, Charles.” She plops onto a fat armchair by the crackling fire, throwing her legs over the arms. “You’ve been cooped in here for nearly a month, you’re avoiding _someone_.”

 

“I’m not avoiding anyone,” Charles counters automatically, “I’m just… collecting my thoughts.”

 

There was a time when Charles would push her away and claim that he was fine – he has to be strong; he has to be bedrock – but that time has passed and that time is not now.

 

With a quiet breath, Charles puts his quill down.

 

“Do you think I could be the Minister of Magic?” he asks without a grain of humor.

 

She replies easily, “Of course.”

 

“I don’t particularly want to, though,” Charles says, leaning back in his chair. He licks his lips and wonders how to phrase his thoughts.

 

The fire pops and the shadows on the walls inch down lower, creeping towards Charles’ essay.

 

“I think everyone expects me to become something great. And, to some extent, it’s my own fault. I’ve been trying to become great.”

 

Raven stares into the fire, her expression unreadable.

 

“But here I am,” Charles gestures to his essay even though Raven cannot see, “Applying for a job in the Department of Mysteries.”

 

The armchair groans as Raven shifts slightly to meet Charles’ eyes. “What are you trying to say?”

 

“Everyone expects me to win,” Charles says slowly, feeling the words in his mouth before letting them fall, “And for a while, I wanted to win.” He taps his finger against his essay. “But now, I’m not so sure.”

 

Raven shifts again, making space next to her on the armchair in invitation.

 

“I enter the Tournament, they expect me to get in. I get into the Tournament, they expect me to win,” Charles rises and pads over to the armchair, “If I win, they’ll expect me to become an Auror, or – or the Minister.” He sinks into the plush armchair and his muscles loosen in relief. “And I don’t know if I want that.”

 

Raven sidles close and Charles obligingly places an arm around her. He continues, “I don’t know if winning this Tournament will prove anything to me, Raven, because there’ll always be the next thing, and the next and the next.” He sighs.

 

“How horrible,” Raven says drily, and Charles can’t help but chuckle at that.

 

“Sorry if my problems are boring.”

 

She shrugs, her robes rasping against Charles’. “How’s Erik?”

 

How’s Erik, indeed.

 

“Well,” Charles begins, “That is the question, isn’t it?”

 

“Are you avoiding him?” Raven raises a hand to inspect her nails.

 

Charles answers quickly. “No.”

 

“That means yes.”

 

“No, Raven, that means no.”

 

“Then why did you starting blushing when I brought up his name?”

 

Damn.

 

Charles sighs. He’s been doing an awful lot of that lately. “I’m seventeen, Raven. Even if I did feel anything, how could it be anything real?”

 

As she smooths the pad of her left thumb over her right thumbnail, Raven answers, “You feel sad and you feel happy and you feel hate. Why can’t you feel love?”

 

Charles presses his lips together in lieu of a response. The fire crackles and the wall sconces sag with the weight of the shadows. Outside the ornate window, the dark sky blinks somberly.

 

“I don’t know if it works that way, Raven,” Charles says finally, but when he glances down, Raven is asleep.

 

Charles sighs.

 

-

 

The next day, as Charles – with his scarf still tucked tightly underneath his chin, cheeks rosy from the brisk walk across the viaduct courtyard, and bookbag firmly slung over his shoulder – hurries into the library looking for a particular book, he all but collides with the very international Quidditch star he had been avoiding.

 

“Bollocks,” hisses Charles. As he was walking backwards, trying to crane his neck back to look up at the higher shelves, his back had hit  something.

 

“Charles?” murmurs a very familiar voice.

 

“Oh Christ,” Charles all but whimpers as he whirls around. “Sorry,” he whispers.

 

“I’ve been looking for you,” Erik says lowly, “Where have you been?”

 

“Right,” begins Charles uneasily.

 

Erik chooses that moment to step back – and _oh_ , Charles hadn’t even realized how closely they were standing – and the movement allows Charles to see the offending object, wrapped up in shining tin foil, clutched in his grip.

 

“Oh Christ,” Charles repeats, and he glances quickly over his shoulder. The librarian, Madam Anna Marie, stands behind her desk, her eyes thankfully hidden by a curtain of her gray hair. “Let’s go,” Charles hisses under his breath at Erik, tugging on the other boy’s sleeves to drag them around the bookshelf, down the aisle to the very back of the library.

 

“Charles,” Erik says, just as Charles tugs the two of them into a shadowy alcove. As Erik steps in close, Charles belatedly realizes that this may not be the best idea.

 

This close, Charles has to tip his head back slightly to look Erik in the eye, and with every breath, Charles feels his thighs brush against Erik’s knees.

 

“What was that?” Erik breathes, and he really is devastatingly attractive, Charles thinks to himself, mournfully.

 

“Chocolate,” Charles looks down to the chocolate egg in Erik’s hand, “Madam Marie hates it in the library.”

 

“Right,” Erik says, and he’s so close, Charles can make out every fleck of brown in his irises. Charles’ gaze darts down to Erik’s mouth and it feels inevitable when Erik finally leans in to kiss him.

 

And Charles really shouldn’t kiss back – they should talk about this – but then Erik steps in, one foot between Charles’ legs, and places two fingers underneath Charles’ chin to tip his head up – has Charles seen that in a Muggle film somewhere? – and Erik’s mouth is warm and sweet – chocolatey – and delicious.

 

“Mhm,” Charles says, into the kiss.

 

Erik kisses him roughly, tongue pressing insistently at Charles’ lips and Charles lets him in eagerly, hands unfurling on his chest, palms flat against Erik’s warm skin. The strap of Charles’ bookbag digs into his shoulder but Charles does not care – not when Erik kisses him like this, hot and persistent and needy.

 

Charles hears himself moan lowly as Erik crowds Charles against the library wall; Charles reaches up with two hands to knot his fingers into Erik’s perfect hair, leans up into the kiss. Immediately, Charles’ robes and scarf feel constricting; a livid blush rises in Charles’ cheeks to chase the chill away.

 

And then Erik breaks the kiss to drag his mouth over Charles’ neck and Charles gasps, blinking his eyes open. His fingers slide from Erik’s hair and then Charles feels Erik’s hand over his own, guiding Charles’ hand in between the folds of Erik’s robes and _oh_ , that’s Erik’s skin, his hipbone, his flank, warm and smooth underneath Charles’ cold fingers.

 

“Erik,” pants Charles, and belatedly, Charles realizes that they’re still in the library; never, never never never, did Charles ever imagine himself here, all but painted against the library wall, his hand slipping underneath Erik Lehnsherr’s robes –

 

“Erik,” Charles says, a little breathlessly, “Erik, wait.”

 

A wet sound blossoms in the air when Erik removes his mouth from Charles’ neck, his breath hot against the wet skin there, and Charles’ stomach curls with heat, but he says, “You can’t – ”

 

Charles licks his lips and Erik raises his head to meet Charles’ gaze, his pupils blown. Charles swallows unevenly, flexes his fingers and feels the supple skin of Erik’s flank give underneath his touch.

 

“Charles?” Erik leans back, the lines of his mouth thinning. “What’s wrong?”

 

And there’s –  there’s something.

 

Maybe, maybe it’s the way Erik’s eyes narrow in worry, his eyes intense and his grip on Charles tight, as if he never wants to let go, his expression fierce.

 

It’s the way Erik had held Charles’ parchment between his fingers so delicately, afraid to put wrinkles in the paper; it’s the way Erik curls his fingers around ivory chess pieces, his eyes darting up every once in a while to meet Charles’ gaze; it’s this that is the impetus behind Charles’ next kiss, which is soft and quiet, pressed up against the corner of Erik’s mouth.

 

“Charles,” breathes Erik, and Charles will never get tired of the way Erik’s accent lifts the vowels of Charles’ name.

 

Charles lets his head fall onto Erik’s shoulder, which is broad and warm and steady, while he tightens his grip on Erik’s hip, as if he never wants to let go.

 

Erik brushes two fingers along Charles’ cheek in question and Charles presses his mouth against the dip of Erik’s neck in answer.

 

Charles flexes the hand underneath Erik’s robes, relishing the feel of Erik’s skin underneath his hand, and slides it downwards, his clammy palm smoothing easily across the expanse of Erik’s side, his hipbone, his –

 

A loud bang jolts the two of them apart.

 

Charles snatches his hand back and Erik jerks back, both of their heads whipping toward the sound.

 

A forlorn Beauxbatons student stands beside a pile of books that has fallen from a higher shelf. Erik swears under his breath.

 

Through the shelves, Charles can see the outline of Madam Anna Marie making her way through the shelves, towards the back of the library.

 

“That’s our cue,” grimaces Charles, tugging his scarf back into place. “C’mon.”

 

Charles prays that the pair of them don’t seem too suspicious as they pad out of the library casually. They’ve just passed the Beauxbatons student when Charles hears a sharp, “No chocolate in the library!”

 

Erik’s breath hitches and there’s a split second of quiet.

 

Then Charles lets out a loud laugh, reaches out to tug on Erik’s hand, the two of them sprinting out of the library while Marie enchants their bags to chase after them.

 

-

 

As winter slowly gives way to spring, the frost on the trees by the lake melt to sluice down rough bark, pooling down to collect around the roots. The air is still startlingly crisp, but its bite diminishes in the bright sun.

 

“I remember,” Charles begins, as they walk down the path down out of the castle, “I used to explore the grounds often.” Charles blinks in the bright sun. “And then, as I grew older, after we adopted Raven and after my father died, the papers were horrid. And that – that was when I started throwing myself into my studies, trying to, to prove the world and to myself that I was meant to be here.”

 

Charles sighs shakily and even as they walk, Erik presses close to Charles, in a subtle sense of camaraderie. Thankfully, Erik offers no pity; his eyes remain sharp and calculating.

 

“Sometimes, I think that I didn’t enjoy my time here. My seventh year is almost over and,” Charles presses his lips together, “And I see Darwin and Raven and Alex and them enjoying themselves, I just – I regret it.”

 

Erik’s mouth curls into not quite a smile. “I know what you mean.”

 

“You probably had it worse,” Charles offers, as they stroll down to the sundial garden, across the wooden bridge, at the base of the Owlery. “It’s not easy becoming a Quidditch star.”

 

Sunlight spills into the garden, casting shadows on the stone sundial. Charles finds a seat next to Erik, the two of them side by side as they sit on the bench.

 

“Maybe,” says Erik serenely, unfolding his long legs in the sun. “But my problems don’t invalidate yours.”

 

The castle grounds are wondrously quiet; only the sound of birds chirping and the wind fill the spaces between Charles and Erik’s words.

 

Erik shrugs. “There’s a balance point somewhere, between work and leisure, between external and internal validation. You just have to find it.”

 

Charles can’t help the scoff that bubbles out of his chest. “That’s easier said than done, my friend.”

 

“I’m sure you’re up to the challenge,” murmurs Erik.

 

The sun begins to dip below the horizon by the time Charles and Erik finally head back to the castle, their shoulders brushing just a hair more than casually, Charles’ hands folded in his pockets and Erik’s hands lost in the endless folds of his robes. They make it across the wooden bridge, to the small, deserted stone courtyard at the base of the clock tower.

 

Charles laughs at something that Erik says, mirth bubbling in his chest and Erik smiles. They walk into a stone alcove, shrouded by crawling vines, and abruptly, Erik walks into Charles, one hand slipping from his robes to push at Charles’ chest and Charles feels a smirk dancing on his lips as his back hits the stone wall behind him, hips digging into the cool blockade.

 

“Hello, Erik,” Charles says, has to purse his mouth to keep from smiling and Erik smirks, his mouth curving into a seductive shape that Charles can never hope to resist.

 

“Hello Charles,” Erik says and Charles breathes out, tips his head back as Erik steps forward, one hand coming up to cup Charles’ jaw, the other curling around Charles’ chest.

 

Erik’s tongue slides into Charles’ mouth easily.

 

_I could get used to this_ , thinks Charles, dazedly.

 

Charles hears himself moan lowly and Erik pulls away abruptly. “Not here, Charles,” he rasps and Charles feels a delicious shiver run down his spine when he sees that Erik’s eyes are blown, his gaze fixed on Charles’ mouth.

 

Reluctantly, Charles pulls back. “You should come to my common room,” Charles blurts out, and he doesn’t mean to, but there’s something wonderful hanging in the air between them, an unspoken conversation, perhaps, that needs to be realized, or maybe an unuttered phrase that needs to be said or an unseen look that needs to be exchanged. Charles doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something holding the both of them back.

 

And for a second, Charles thinks he’s being too forward.

 

But then Erik’s eyes darken, his hand gripping tighter on Charles’ waist. “Everyone’s at dinner,” Charles thinks aloud, “We can stay in the Ravenclaw library.”

 

“You’ve a library in your common room?”

 

“It’s Ravenclaw,” Charles says.

 

“And your work?” Erik leans in, his mouth so so closer, but not touching.

 

“I’ll manage,” Charles replies, and he has to physically push Erik back to resist the temptation to touch him. “Are you interested?”

 

-

 

Before he knows it, Charles is climbing the familiar steps up to the Ravenclaw tower, murmuring a quiet answer to the eagle knocker and slipping inside.

 

This time, however, he isn’t coming back from an escapade involving Nundus in the Forbidden Forest; nor is he looking for any particular book in Ravenclaw’s stash of books.

 

This time, Erik Lehnsherr follows Charles, his steps careful and silent as they step into the common room.

 

“I wasn’t expecting this, honestly,” Erik admits, looking up around and Charles forces himself to relook around the common room.

 

The circular walls, covered in silver and blue tapestries, extend upwards to slope up into a domed ceiling painted with stars, bronze-woven curtains parted to reveal arched glass windows. Erik strolls to one of them, two fingers pushing back the material to glance through the window; Charles knows that he sees one of the best views of Hogwarts: the lake, parts of Forbidden Forest, Quidditch pitch and the surrounding mountains.

 

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Charles comes over to stand by Erik. “Sometimes, at night, we can hear the wind whistling around the tower.”

 

For a moment, the two of them stand in the window, flooded with light, before Charles closes the curtain, turning away from the window.

 

He pushes the delicate tapestries aside, revealing Ravenclaw’s hidden library. The wooden door swings open noiselessly, revealing the shelves of books as well as the –

 

“What a mess,” Charles grimaces, “Sorry about that.”

 

Strewn across the blue carpet are Charles’ books, still perfectly spread out from where the last time he was here, researching for the second task.

 

Erik barely spares the mess a glance before running his hand along the mahogany wood of a bookshelf. “It’s wonderful,” he says.

 

“I think so too,” agrees Charles. He waves his wand with a little flourish, Conjuring a chessboard in the middle of the room. “Care for a game?”

 

They take their places on their respective sides of the board, and Charles remembers the first game they played; it seemed so long ago.

 

“Pawn to B4,” Charles begins, in a Sokolsky Opening.

 

“Do you remember,” Erik muses, “The first time we played?”

 

“Quite well,” murmurs Charles, his fingers hovering over his pieces. His queen yawns loudly.

 

“I was surprised you asked me to play,” admits Erik.

 

“I surprised myself, too,” Charles adds drily.

 

Four or five orbs of light bob around them, illuminating the room. Erik looks up at Charles and those lights highlight the glint in his eyes.

 

A knight clears his throat loudly but both of them ignore him.

 

“Why did you – ”

 

Charles breaks off, stretching his legs out on the floor. The cushion that he sits on shifts underneath his weight.

 

“Pawn to G5,” says Erik.

 

“Finally,” grumbles the knight and Charles fixes it with a stern look.

 

“Why were you so persistent,” Charles says finally, looking down at his pieces.

 

 Charles doesn’t have to elaborate any further.

 

“I’m not sure,” Erik admits, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Charles finds himself momentarily distracted by the movement. “But at first, it was because, well, you treated me so normally.”

 

A silence stretches between them as Charles looks down at the board. Charles’ queen stares back up at him, waiting for him to speak.

 

“We’re alike, you and I,” says Erik. For some reason, Charles can’t bring himself to meet the Seeker’s gaze. “We both worked hard to get to where we are now. You’re trying to prove your worth to the world and, I guess, to yourself, too.”

 

Fabric scratches against fabric as Erik shifts.

 

Charles thinks of bluebells drooping in the summer sun, Erik’s fingers long and pale and elegant, tracing mountains and valleys through the air, inky Victorian water lilies floating on a pond of stars –

 

“You know what it’s like,” Erik says. Charles looks up.

 

Erik’s eyes are sharp, watching and curious as always. Erik’s always had that look, as if one piercing look told him everything he needed to know –

 

Erik’s hands wrapped around a broomstick, his expression intense and his scarlet robes fluttering around his face; Erik in the library, the lineaments of his face highlighted by soft candlelight; _I finally changed your mind_ , he had said –

 

Charles leans forward impulsively, his chest meeting the sharp edge of the chessboard, his hand fisting into the material of Erik’s collar, dragging their mouths together.

 

“Really?” drawls Erik’s knight and Charles hears his queen cackle in delight but he pays them no mind, too busy kissing the absolute hell out of Erik Lehnsherr.

 

Charles has just gotten Erik’s bottom lip in his mouth when the Seeker lurches backwards, taking Charles with him.

 

A loud clatter fills the air, along with the disgruntled groaning and complaining of their chess pieces, as the board is unceremoniously dumped onto the ground. Charles all but lunges forward, pushing Erik back until the latter collides with the floor, Charles landing on top of him in an artless heap.

 

Erik smiles into the kiss – Charles can feel it – and tugs Charles down, their bodies pressed wonderfully against each other.

 

“Are you going to leave us like this?” calls a king, and Charles reaches into Erik’s robes to find his wand – his very magical, wooden wand, thank you very much, _not_ the other one. Charles casts a careless spell without so much as a glance backwards, Vanishing the chess set with a flourish.

 

“Impressive,” Erik rumbles, his lips brushing against Charles’ cheek.

 

“I try,” sniffs Charles as he rolls off of Erik, onto the carpet next to him.

 

As they lie there, splayed on their backs, they stare up at the ceiling. Overhead, someone has charmed the ceiling to look like the sky if one were lying on the floor of the Forbidden Forest – dark trunks rise out of the gloom, their leaves rustling silently in an imaginary wind. Erik shifts, and weaves his fingers through Charles’. Charles imagines lying here for a thousand years, the bark of the trees atrophying into wilted grayness, falling onto the forest floor and piling into detritus; he imagines the trunks shooting into the air like sprouts in the sun, then wilting back when another wave of trees takes their place. Above the treetop, stars blink slowly.

 

Charles moves then, places his head on Erik’s shoulder.

 

And Erik accommodates him easily, adjusting so that Charles’ head fits more comfortably. His hand tightens around Charles’.

 

-

 

A little while later, sometime between afternoon and night, Charles finds himself curled up in a Conjured blanket, one hand curled absentmindedly around Erik’s hip.

 

The orbs of light shine on Ravenclaw tapestries, on the Conjured blanket, on the skin of Erik’s neck.

 

“Did you Conjure this?” Charles asks drowsily, blinking back sleep. He shifts closer to Erik.

 

“Mhm. When will the rest of them come back?” Erik murmurs, right into Charles’ ear. Their bodies entwine around each other lazily and Charles leans in to kiss Erik, just because he can.

 

“Soon, I suppose,” Charles replies, reaches up to drag one finger down the bridge of Erik’s nose. He feels unbelievable warm and never wants to leave this room. There’s still a space, an unseen look waiting to be seen, an unspoken confession waiting to be said, but the air feels lighter, sweeter.

 

“Thank you,” Charles remembers belatedly.

 

Erik pulls away to stretch his long limbs and Charles props himself up on an elbow to watch. They haven’t done anything serious, save for a few heated kisses and the slip of Charles’ fingers on Erik’s ribs, and this feels strangely intimate.

“I should get going,” murmurs Erik, although he makes no move to rise.

 

“Right,” says Charles, as he leans in to kiss Erik once more, right on the corner of his mouth.

 

And after Erik finally does leave a while later, it’s with a strange sense of finality. The common room is empty – everyone is down at dinner – and Charles runs three fingers down Erik’s arm in a soft farewell. Erik smiles. The door closes. Charles returns to his four-poster bed. He sleeps.

 


	10. The Third Task

They come to a mutual agreement that they won’t allow anything between them to come in the way of the tournament – or rather, Charles mentions it and Erik nods in agreement – but other than a few hours each day that Erik spends on the Durmstrangs’ ship, Charles spends as much time with Erik as possible, soaking him in. There are still a few words that hang between them, unsaid, and sometimes Charles’ breath will catch, he will hesitate, but Charles forces himself to submerge in this lull, this break between Ministry applications and Tournament Tasks, while he can.

 

Charles walks with Erik through Hogwarts’ grounds –

 

Erik and Charles meandering through the greenhouses – Charles’ hand tucked casually into the inky spill of Erik’s sleeve, both in the morning when sunlight refracts through greenhouse glass and reflects upon emerald leaves as well as in the evening when the sun dips below the horizon and the stars pirouette on a dark pond –

 

Erik and Charles crossing the viaduct bridge leisurely – Erik pressed up against Charles as they walk, their scarves wrapped up under their chins and their hands shoved gracelessly in their pockets and the wind howling in the spaces between their words –

 

Erik and Charles laughing in the Three Broomsticks over firewhiskey – tucked into a secluded corner in the back room, Erik’s ankles pressing suggestively against Charles’ calf, Erik’s mouth curling suggestively against the cold rim of his frosty glass, Erik’s wrist bent suggestively near Charles’ palm –

 

Erik and Charles wandering down to the eerie boathouse – moonlight turning green, shining on the murky waters that lap against a stone dock, and Erik pressed against the sweaty glass, robes dark against his skin –

 

Erik and Charles in the Black Lake in the dead of night – water almost unbearably cold but their heating charms dispelling the chill, hair slicked back against their skulls –

 

Erik and Charles walking along the edge of the Forbidden Forest – dark trees rising out of the gloom, fog wreathing around a moon that peers at their silent footsteps –

 

Erik and Charles and Charles and Erik.

 

-

 

A few weeks later, on the day of the third task, Charles Xavier wakes to someone throwing a newspaper at his head.

 

“Jesus, Hank, what is it?” Charles groans.

 

“Last day, Charles, you can’t miss it!” someone else yells from the bathroom and Charles rubs his eyes to read the paper.

 

“ _Charles Xavier’s Exotic Catch_?” Charles reads aloud, can’t help the derisive snort of laughter that bubbles out of his chest when he reads Frost’s article.

 

“That was Darwin’s idea of a joke,” mutters Hank, as he rubs his glasses with a handkerchief.

 

“Actually,” Charles’ gaze immediately goes to the pictures. Charles doesn’t know how Frost got them, but there’s one of him and Erik on the shore right after the second task, the two of them sitting close and Charles watches himself share a private smile with Erik, lean into the other boy’s touch. Another photo depicts the two of them studying by one of the greenhouses, their hair drenched in sun and Charles’ heading fall back as he laughs uproariously. “I think I’d rather keep these ones,” muses Charles to himself, as he prods his photo, makes himself sit up a little straighter. “Remind me to thank Frost for these, Hank.”

 

Hank rolls his eyes.

 

-

 

Charles meets Erik Lehnsherr and Maha Abdelaziz on the Hogwarts Quidditch field – or what’s left of it anyway.

 

The field, expanded now to nearly thrice its original size, has sunk down, into a depression of sorts; around the field stands the quidditch stands, in the perfect position for an audience to peer down with a pair of omnioculars. The crowd has already filled up all the stands; some spectators stand on the edge of the field, peering into the depths below. The grass, however, has been grown up in an odd formation, almost like –

 

“A maze?” says Maha, somewhat incredulously. She looks at John McCone, who stands between the champions.

 

“Quite right.” McCone nods briskly. “Now, of course there has been a protective charm placed around the maze so that no onlookers will be harmed. You three will enter all at the same time, and remain in the maze until someone finds the Triwizard Cup.” The man reaches into his purple robes and pulls out a velvet drawstring bag. “Now,” he reaches in and pulls out three necklaces of brass. “A chain for each of you, so we will know where you are at all times.” McCone hands out the necklaces, which are surprisingly heavy. Charles frowns.

 

The brass chain slides easily over Charles’ neck, and the square charm looped through the chain slides down underneath Charles’ collar. It is cold to the touch. Charles licks his lips worriedly. The chain feels odd. If surveillance really was needed, then the judges could have chosen a number of charms to place –

 

“Each contestant must keep his or her necklace on at all times, otherwise he or she will risk disqualification. Any legal spells are permitted during the duration of the task; however, I must remind you all that any purposeful, bodily harm to your fellow contestants will result in automatic disqualification.”

 

Charles looks around at this, but both Maha and Erik have their eyes fixed upon McCone.

 

“There are various sections that the maze is divided into, and within each section you will find various dangers. Should you require assistance of any kind, you may send up red sparks into the air. A team of mediwitches and wizards will come to the sparks immediately. However, in doing so, you will also disqualify yourself from the Tournament.”

 

McCone eyes the trio over the rim of his glasses. “Questions?”

 

They all shake their heads.

 

And that’s it.

 

And then McCone leads them underneath a quidditch stand, down a shrouded hallway. The three headmistresses have already taken their seats up in a box in the largest stand, and so there is nothing but McCone and the champions and the darkness.

 

They emerge at the same level of the maze. Charles looks up to see what looks like a million spectators staring back at him, their faces small and shining.

 

“Take your places,” McCone says gruffly, and in the dim light of the maze, his wrinkles seem even more prominent, shadows dark underneath his cheekbones. “Abdelaziz, over there – Lehnsherr, here – Xavier, right, yes right there,” he says.

 

It feels unreal; Charles is here, competing in the most prestigious competition –

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin. Let me remind you how the points currently stand. In first place, with eighty-five points – Ms. Maha Abdelaziz from Beauxbatons Academy!” McCone says. His magically amplified voice resonates across the field and the cheers from the crowd ring across the pitch. “Tied in second place, with eighty points each – Mr. Erik Lehnsherr of Durmstrang Institute and Mr. Charles Xavier of Hogwarts School!”

 

The most prestigious wizarding competition on the _continent_ –

 

“On the signal, you may enter the maze.”

 

A horn blares and then Charles steps off the metal plate he was instructed to stand on, plunging into the mist that spills over the dark hedges. The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path, and overhead, the sky is dark navy.

 

 _Concentrate,_ he tells himself.

 

This particular section of the maze seems reasonably enough, save for the fact that the looming hedges seem to grow in toward behind Charles, sealing off all exits behind him.

 

The hedges grow into another behind Charles, effectively blocking the view of the starting plate and of McCone. The sound of the roaring crowd suddenly diminishes, and Charles’ ears ring with an eerie silence.

 

Odd, he thinks to himself, but pulls his wand out of his robes nevertheless, holding it in front of him.

 

The shadows struggle against the fog, which seems to glow on its own, darkness fading the edges of Charles’ vision. Without his consent, Charles’ pulse begins to quicken; he forces himself not to imagine figures lurking behind the thick fog.

 

_Concentrate._

 

It feels as though he’s only been walking for a few minutes when Charles’ feet trip.

 

“What – ” starts Charles, but he ends his sentence abruptly: his voice sounds tinny and – and wrong; it breaks the silence and doesn’t  fit in with the hum of the wind and the rustle of leaves.

 

He looks down.

 

The grass that Charles had been walking on for the last few minutes has suddenly morphed into a forest floor; Charles had tripped on a root that juts out from the ground.

 

Charles frowns, licks his lips, glances behind him.

 

The slopes of the maze behind him look like an open mouth; it swallows the darkness and hungers for more, so Charles picks himself up and strides over the root.

 

Around him, the walls of the maze begin morphing into something that oddly resembles a forest, the clean and trimmed hedges shaping into gray trunks and gnarled branches. Fog still wreaths around Charles and around the tree trunks, layering everything with a sense of foreboding.

 

Charles tugs on the cold chain around his neck with one hand and holds out his wand with the other.

 

“ _Lumos,_ ” he murmurs, under his breath, even though it appears as though there were no one around to overhear.

 

Overhead, a crow caws and the leaves of the trees rustle, eliciting an involuntary shiver out of Charles.

 

Charles’ heart skips in his chest.

 

 _Concentrate_.

 

Charles blinks his eyes and tries to peer through the darkness; his skin tingles and he whirls around, knuckles white around his chain –

 

A dark shadow suddenly whips by Charles’ left side, and a loud screech rips through the night –

 

“ _Expulso!_ ” he roars, waiting a mere second for the burst of blue light to explode from his wand before breaking into a full run, leaping over tree roots and sprinting down the maze –

 

The same, eerie bird call tears through the sounds of trees rustling again, loud and ringing even over the sound of Charles’ blood pounding in his ears – Charles’ _Lumos_ has gone out with the force of his other spell and he’s left in the near dark –

 

Something whips by Charles’ ear and he lashes out with his wand again. “ _Expulso_!”

 

The bright jet of light illuminates the rustling leaves as it shoots out of Charles’ wand, but misses the wailing Irish Phoenix; light glints off of its bottle green feathers.

 

The giant bird disappears into the rustling trees again. Charles slows to a walk, his eyes constantly searching around him; his heart thumps in his chest but at least now he knows what he’s –

 

A loud wail again, except this time, it seems to come from all around him; the sound, high-pitched and mournful, resonates in the dark maze. Charles licks his lips. He could cast _Lumos_ now, in an attempt to see the beast, but his light would just go out again if he were to cast another spell.

 

“ _Lumos_ ,” Charles murmurs. He continues pacing through the maze.

 

Silence reverberates throughout the maze. The wind seems to have stopped abruptly, leaving the trees silent.

 

Ahead, Charles sees a shimmering curtain of what looks like golden mist. He glances over his shoulder – only darkness, and the odd feeling that the maze is closing in behind him. Charles wipes his brow. His head comes back clammy with sweat.

 

In an attempt to blast the enchanted mist away, Charles points his wand at the shnny mist. “ _Reducto!”_

 

His voice echoes. The spell shoots right through the mist, disappearing into the night. Charles looks behind him again only to be met with the gaping mouth of the maze, trees looking like they’re collapsing inwards, ravenous for light. Charles braces himself and sprints through the maze.

 

Time slows – Charles blinks and he thinks he can hear the slap of the flesh of his top eyelid against his bottom one; his heart rumbles in his chest like an earthquake and it feels as though his whole body has been encased in quicksand – and the world literally turns upside down.

 

Charles hangs from the ground, with his hand on end, his chain dangling in his face, threatening to fall into the bottomless sky. Charles grabs the chain and hangs there, terrified. His feet have glued themselves to the forest floor, which is now the ceiling. Below him, the dark heavens stretched endlessly.

 

 _Concentrate_ , Charles tells himself, even as all the blood begins to rush to his head.

 

But none of the spells that Charles knows had been designed to combat a sudden reversal of ground and sky. Would he move his feet? His blood throbs in his ears. He could try and move, or he could send up red sparks –

 

Charles squeezes his eyes shut and lifts one foot from the leafy ceiling.

 

Immediately the world rightens itself. Charles falls onto the wonderfully solid ground with a thud, cursing all the while. He blinks and takes a deep breath, before brushing himself off and standing up. He sways for a moment, then begins pacing once more, into the darkness ahead, sparing one last glance back at the golden mist, which twinkles innocently at him in the moonlight.

 

He paces for about a minute before halting suddenly. Charles frowns.

 

Around him, the world has become muted: the leaves whisper quietly amongst themselves and the wind sighs in Charles’ ears, but other than that? Silence.

 

His skin tingles. Charles licks his lips.

 

There’s a moment, one long long moment, of absolute nothing.

 

And then the brass locket on Charles’ chest begins, inexplicably, _burning_ , its metal heating up rapidly and sticking to Charles’ chest –

 

“What,” he gasps in shock and fumbles with the chain, tries to pull it off, but the damned thing is _stuck_ ; it’s all but glued to Charles’ skin –

 

And now the metal feels alarmingly hot; Charles tries not to imagine it searing off his skin –

 

The dark forest around him dissolves. Suddenly, the sensation of flying backwards very very fast washes over Charles. Again, he feels frozen in place, his feet firmly planted on the ground but the surroundings around him whipping by –

 

A blur of colors and shapes rush by him and Charles tries to lift his feet, but to no avail – he tries to shout but it seems as though his throat were a closed fist; no sound comes out –

 

And then the world begins to slow; Charles abruptly becomes aware of a sickening, overly sweet smell, putrid enough that the back of Charles’ throat swells with something sour.

 

When the world comes into focus, the walls of gray trunks have been replaced with hedges of – of _green_ , except this time, an ungodly, bright green that resembles viscous slime –

 

The floor feels like mud underneath Charles’ feet, barely coagulated enough to hold the weight of him, so immediately Charles moves quickly, heading straight ahead and then taking a left at a fork in the road. The floor feels like mud, save for its sickly pale green color. The further Charles walks, the stronger the miasma becomes, dark and dangerous and reeking.

 

The slimy walls around Charles feel sick and _diseased_ ; they throb unevenly as though they were the walls of a coughing heart. _Pestilence_ , Charles thinks, even as he paces down the path.

 

Here, it’s slightly brighter. This section of the maze, although it still has the same navy sky and blinking moon, seems to reflect what little light there is off of the green walls and the green floor, casting an eerie glow onto Charles’ skin. The quicksand-like floor beneath Charles forces him to move quickly, choosing left, right, right, left at the forks he encounters.

 

He aims to head north, towards the center of the maze. With his wand place flat on his palm, and with a whispered, “ _Point me_ ,” Charles’ wand can spin to point north.

 

He’s encountered four forks and two dead ends when Charles suddenly remembers his chain.

 

As he fumbles with the thing – while walking, still – he curses under his breath. How could he forget?

 

The brass now feels cold to the touch, the metal dead and lifeless. Charles licks his lips.

 

 _Concentrate_.

 

The actual locket that has been looped into the chain lies heavy on Charles’ chest. His fingers, pulsing with adrenaline, tremble slightly as he picks up the weighty locket. As Charles walks, he examines the intricate design in the eerie green light. He looks back over his shoulder, then up, then back at the locket.

 

There’s a strange design that looks reminiscent of something Celtic etched into the brass, covering the coffin-like shape of the locket. The lines of the design coalesce in the back of the locket to form a Celtic rune that looks suspiciously like a symbol for _unbreakable_. Swinging his head, Charles looks over his shoulder, then forward again. His fingers drop the locket back onto his chest.

 

In front of him, rising out of the green light, is an oozing barrier, ribbed with bars that run towards the sky. The bars of the gate pulse with energy and drip something pus-like onto the ground. Charles halts in front of them. The barrier rises up, far into the sky; at the top of it, the vertical, slimy bars twist into something forked. A rune, Charles realizes, his head tilted back to look at the top of the gate, a magical rune barring the use of magic on the gate itself.

 

A loud barking fills the air and Charles flinches in surprise.

 

Through the gaps of the barrier, there’s a chamber, walls throbbing, littered with rocks covered in globs of clear or yellow or black or red bile. The four humors, perhaps, Charles thinks.

 

The chamber houses three beasts, three shapes pacing in the chamber that the gate leads into: three dogs – or mangy beasts that look like dogs – nearly as big as horses, their pelts a strange blue-green, their fangs dripping with pus.

 

With every second that he stands in front of the barrier, Charles’ feet sink deeper into the thick ground. He has to – “Oh Christ,” Charles murmurs under his breath.

 

One of the dogs snaps its head towards Charles.

 

“Oh Christ,” Charles repeats.

 

The rest of the dogs turn towards him, their beady eyes glowing blue. Charles hesitates for a moment, glancing over his shoulder, then he brandishes his wand, pushing it through the slick bars of the gate. The rune may prevent magic from opening the gate, but it may not prevent magic from taking place within the chamber.

 

With a flick of his wrist, Charles Transfigures the largest rock into a wolf – black bile slips into the shape of black fur, rising up and up and up, hackles raised, growl rumbling in the cavity of a chest.

 

The three beasts whip around snarling and the Transfigured wolf lunges for the smallest dog, barreling into the furthest wall of the chamber.

 

Charles stows his wand hurriedly into his robes, getting the snot-like gunk all over his robes in the process – he can feel the wet floor sucking at his ankles now – and attempts to wrench the barrier open with his hands.

 

The fleshy material _squelches_ under Charles grip, goo oozing out from between Charles’ fingers as he clenches down on the bars, tries to pull them apart –

 

The largest dog barks loudly at Charles’ wolf, and there’s a loud snap just as Charles glances up to see his wolf clamp down on the leg of the smallest dog, teeth cracking into bone –

 

Charles looks back at the gate, redoubles his efforts to try and open the goddamned gate –

 

A horrible howl fills the air as the smallest dog wails –

 

Charles’ muscles seem to atrophy with every second, his lungs full of the horribly saccharine smell, his skin smothered in humors; it’s almost as though Charles has caught this disease –

 

The bars of the gate snap open with an obscene sucking sound; Charles rips his legs out of the ground and bolts across the chamber, his heart sinking as he sees _another_ barrier, with the same bars reaching into the sky –

 

Except these bars form a different rune.

 

Charles pulls out his wand, his sticky fingers squelching around the wood, shouts, “ _Reducto_!” blasting a hole just small enough for himself but not nearly big enough for one of the enormous dogs –

 

The spell physically drains energy from Charles – he can feel it – and every step feels like a thousand miles through mud; Charles turns his head over his shoulder and a dog is pursuing him, its ugly maw gaping – this close, Charles can see the bile that hangs from its teeth, the spittle pooling in its cheeks, the scarred flank and the pus and the infectious pestilence –

 

With the last bit of his energy, Charles leaps through the gap in the barrier and through a curtain of slime, which coats his hair and his face and his robes when he lands on the other side in a heap of exhausted limbs and shaking hands.

 

The dog snarls at the barrier, sticking its huge head through the gap, clacking its teeth together. The smell of sticky, rotting flesh emanates from the beast, and Charles swats the flies away.

 

He picks himself up, casts a brief cleaning spell, before walking on.

 

Every step feels heavy; Charles’ breath rattles in his ribcage, echoing hollowly and unevenly. His eyes sting with the malodor of decay. The floor seems to rise up to meet every one of Charles’ steps, caressing his ankles and his calves, threatening to pull him down; Charles feels _diseased_ –

 

“Point me,” he rasps, placing his wand on his palm. His wand shudders and then swings, pointing right in the fork in the path. Charles turns right.

 

Ahead, there stands another barrier, except this time, the bars of the gate twist together in the sky to form the rune for health.

 

The barrier pushes open easily, and Charles barely even registers the cold, wet feeling of the slime on his hand.

 

As soon as Charles steps into the chamber, his stomach heaves. He doubles over suddenly, his eyes stinging and his throat opening like a fist unfurling, and then vomits, his chest squeezing and his eyes tearing up.

 

Bile splatters onto the floor – which is stone, Charles realizes, after his stomach squeezes one last time – thick and disgusting. Charles wipes his mouth and turns away.

 

But now, he feels as though the sickness has physically exited his body, leaving his eyes clear and his limbs rejuvenated. His breaths come easily and steadily.

 

“Right,” Charles murmurs to himself.

 

He rightens up, sways for a moment, then stands tall.

 

Around him, the chamber walls are still slimy and green, but they hold still. The floor underneath him is stone. Charles barely has time to turn around and examine the rest of the room when his locket burns on his chest.

 

Charles braces himself as the world rushes by around him, the green tones of the pestilence section blurring away.

 

When the world rightens and focuses again, green has faded into gray and the walls of the maze are now made of stone.

 

Except the stone is old and tarnished, red and yellow moss growing over it. The air chills Charles’ skin, tightening around his nose and fingers.

 

Ahead of him, the path looks like something out of a tundra, dirt and stone packed into a cold walkway, covered with bits and pieces of moss and stray weeds. Charles’ breath condenses in the air and he sees the beginnings of ice collecting in beads on the moss.

 

Charles looks behind him. The walls of the tundra seem steady enough, unmoving and stoic, so Charles pulls the brass locket out of his collar.

 

He runs his wand over the tracings on the metal, his thumb brushing against a slight lip in the locket. Charles presses his lips into a thin line. With the tip of his wand pressed against the slight lip, Charles murmurs, “ _Alohomora_.”

 

The locket shivers with the energy imbued in it from the spell, then creaks, metal parting like the lips of a mouth, gaping open to reveal a shiny hourglass inside.

 

“ _Oh_.”

 

Charles’ breath forms a cloud over the tiny hourglass and he rubs it with a thumb to remove the condensation. The pieces begin to click together in Charles’ mind now, and he hurriedly stows the hourglass back into the brass locket, tucking the chain back into his robes and then setting a timer on his wand for one hour.

 

He moves quickly now, invigorated by his new discovery and by the cold. Above him, the sky has melted into something pale and cloudy, obscuring the sun. Charles glances up at the sky, and then down at his watch.

 

The path becomes steadily icier and snowier as Charles traverses; there are fewer splits in the path now, but Charles makes sure to use his wand as a compass at every one. The hard packed dirt underfoot morphs into soft, sugary snow.

 

And although the ice and snow are beautiful, Charles remembers to cast a warming charm right at the center of his belly to keep warm. With a jolt, Charles thinks of Erik for the first time since he entered the maze. He wonders where the other competitors are and how they are faring.

 

 _Concentrate_.

 

Flakes of snow have begun to fall, landing gently in Charles’ hair and decorating his black robes. He brushes them idly away, pushes forward along the path.

 

There’s another fork in the road, but this time, the snow has gotten thick enough for Charles to see giant pawprints leading to the path on the right. Charles pulls out his wand. “ _Point me_.” His wand hesitates, then snaps to the right, clearly pointing at the trail with the monster footprints.

 

“Well then,” Charles huffs, adjusting his robes and his heating charm around himself before following the enormous pawprints.

 

The stone walls are still the main structure of the maze in this section, but now, snow begins to build upon the walls; in this particular part of the path, the snow completely obscures the walls, leaving no hint of rock underneath, and even piles on to create a tunnel of sorts overhead. The moss and rocks have disappeared, or at least they seem to have, under the thick layer of powdery snow.

 

Ice and snow crunch underneath Charles’ shoes. He considers Transfiguring his shoes into boots, or perhaps wide snowshoes. He brushes ice out of his hair, then tucks his fingers into his robes.

 

Charles has his hand wrapped around his wand, a spell for Transfiguration waiting underneath his tongue, when he looks down and abruptly realizes the monster tracks are nowhere to be found.

 

His heart lurches into his throat.

 

He whirls around to look back but the wind chooses to pick up, carrying snow everywhere and making the visibility horrible. Charles casts a quick Impervius Charm on his face to ward off the blizzard, and it’s a little easier to see after the fact, but Charles still tightens his grip on his wand.

 

_Thud._

 

And as abruptly as it came, the wind dies, leaving a resounding silence in its wake.

 

_Thud._

 

“ _Bombarda!”_

 

Charles reels back in surprise as the body of a Yeti-like creature falls face first in the snow in front of Charles, its back smoking with the explosion. Charles blinks.

 

“Thank you,” he says politely, looking up at where Maha Abdelaziz stands behind the corpse of the monster, her wand still pointed towards the thing.

 

“You’re welcome,” she says, stepping over the sizzling body. And then she wastes no time in asking, “Why are the sections changing? What’s going on?”

 

A favor for a favor, perhaps is what Maha wants.

 

Charles looks over his shoulder. “C’mon,” he gestures forward, “Let’s walk and I’ll tell you.”

 

“Just remember,” Charles begins hesitantly as they fall into step on the snowy path. “I’m not exactly sure it this correct – it’s all speculation as of now – ”

 

She shakes her head slightly, and snow from her hair falls onto her silky blue robes. “I trust you.”

 

“Right,” says Charles. “Well, our chains, they’re Time-Turners.”

 

Maha gives Charles a look.

 

“Look,” Charles says, finger fumbling as he pulls out his own. He blinks ice out of his eyes. “ _Alohomora.”_

 

The brass parts its lips to reveal the hourglass. “But it’s fixed. See, there’s a rune on the casing. We can’t move the hourglass; it’s timed and it moves for us.”

 

They reach a fork in the road and Maha pulls out her wand. “ _Montrez moi,_ ” she says. They head left.

 

“They didn’t build one maze,” Charles explains, “They built several. Each one is different – the first one was a forest, the second one was disease, and this one is a tundra.

 

“Every hour our Time-Turners spin and we’re pushed back to another hour, another maze. They built different variations of the same maze at different times, and so they’re sending us to different times and, thusly, different mazes.”

 

Maha narrows her eyes almost imperceptibly. “So, the Cup should be in the same spot, no matter the maze.”

 

“Right,” Charles nods. He taps his thigh discreetly, re-energizing his heating charm.

 

For another moment, they walk without speaking.

 

And then, out of the gloom rises a fork in the road. Maha pulls out her wand, places it flat on her palm.

 

The wand turns, and faces directly between the two paths.

 

“Well,” Maha says; her accent curls her words. “Goodbye then, Charles.”

 

“Good luck,” Charles says, taking the left path while Maha takes the right. Her footsteps fade within a few steps, and silence overtakes the world once more. Charles is alone.

 

Charles had only been with Maha for a mere handful of minutes but the loneliness seems a thousand times more so without her presence; it had been reassuring to just have another person to talk to, and now Charles has nothing but his heartbeat again.

 

The air hangs heavy and suppressive around Charles as he walks. It feels as though every step requires twice as much energy as the last; Charles blinks rapidly to keep the snow out of his eyes and Conjures a thicker robe for himself.

 

 _Concentrate_ , he tells himself.

 

With a shiver, Charles realizes that with each passing hour, the maze steadily transforms into something more and more dangerous; with each passing hour, the risk of injury mounts steadily; Charles has to find his way to the center of the maze as soon as possible.

 

Charles pulls out his wand to cast a quick Point-Me when the wood buzzes in an alert. Charles yanks his chain out of his robes and a second later, the metal begins to burn.

 

After the world blurs and then refocuses, Charles immediately feels the tight grip of a choking heat, fisting into his clothes and tugging on his thick cloak that he Conjured.

 

Charles gasps, blinking sand out of his eyes, and slashes out with his wand to Vanish the thicker layers of his robes, wrapping his sleeve over his nose and mouth.

 

The gentle slopes of a desert rise up to meet Charles as he staggers forward; sand, fine and thin and tan, stretches for as far as the eye can see, forming both the walls of the maze and the uneven floor. The stifling heat breathes against Charles’ face, blowing air and sand into his eyes.

 

 _Concentrate_ –

 

Every hour, the maze becomes significantly more dangerous to the Champions; if not for the _unbreakable_ rune engraved on the back of the Time-Turner, Charles might’ve been able to find a way to halt the spell that continually spins the hourglass. But for now, he must find the quickest way to the Cup; perhaps –

 

Charles looks over his shoulder instinctively –

 

The heat expands suddenly and the collar of Charles’ robes tightens around his neck, swelling up with hot air. Charles blinks sand out of his eyes and flicks his wrist, Conjuring a cup. “ _Aguamenti_ ,” Charles says, ignoring the scratch in his throat, pointing his wand into the cup.

 

Charles blinks; the cup has not filled.

 

“ _Aguamenti_ ,” he repeats firmly, jabbing his wand into the empty cup. Water refuses to rise.

 

Charles tosses his cup aside in annoyance; most likely an enchantment has been cast on the maze to prevent the Conjuring of water. He squints up at the sky, which burns down on him.

 

In the corner of his eye, a long shadow from the wall of sand stretches across the floor, reaching out to Charles. Charles refrains from licking his lips and steps quickly towards the shade, pausing in the wonderful shade to squat down and catch his breath.

 

The sand still emanates heat from underneath him, but the shade provides relief from the relentless sun. Charles leans back against the sandy wall, casting his eyes across the path in front of him.

 

Sand stretches everywhere, lifting slightly in the wind and swirling in ribbons. Charles looks to his left. There’s a slight dip in the earth. He frowns.

 

With one hand, he reaches out to brush four fingers against the surface of the sand, and with the other, he reaches for his wand.

 

The sand to his left is slightly cool to the touch. Charles looks to his right, then back.

 

With a murmured spell, Charles manages to shift enough sand up and over to see the gaping mouth of a dark, dark tunnel. Charles gets to his feet quickly, stepping away from the tunnel.

 

A snake, Charles thinks, a desert snake burrowing under the earth to escape the midday heat of the sun. Charles barely spares a moment to think before twisting his wand into a curlicue shape, drawing a yellow string of light into the air. Flicking his wrist, Charles sends the intangible string into the tunnel, and then places his wand flat on his palm

 

Within several seconds, the yellow string of light, still attached to the tip of Charles’ wand, tugs his wand until it points directly to Charles’ right. Charles ends the spell.

 

And then, he murmurs, “Point me,” wiping sweat from his brow with one hand. His wand pauses, then points directly to Charles’ right.

 

The tunnel leads north, to the center of the maze, Charles knows this. But what Charles does not know is whether or not the tunnel is inhabited. He hesitates.

 

The mouth of the tunnel is slightly wider than the width of Charles’ shoulders, but as Charles enters, he is forced to stoop to walk through. Charles halts about three steps in, turns around, levitates a mound of sand back over the mouth of the tunnel, and continues onward.

 

“ _Lumos_.”

 

Charles tugs his collar uncomfortably; although it is significantly cooler here, the air still presses down on Charles’ clothes and his skin, warm and sticky.

 

Both Charles’ wand and his yellow string light the path for him; there’re scales and rocks littering the sand, but no other sign of inhabitation.

 

He walks for a few more minutes, the walls of the tunnel flickering eerily with his light. At a fork in the road, Charles halts. His string leads left.

 

In the space before the fork of the road, Charles draws out a fence in the sand, raising it up to form a square cage of sorts, about a foot high, made of compact sand. With another flick, Charles flies about a dozen rocks into the cage. Then, he Transfigures them into large mice.

 

Satisfied, Charles spins on his heels, tucking his robes around himself, before brandishing his wand and continuing on the path to the left.

 

For a while, nothing disturbs Charles save for the sound of his footfalls echoing in the tunnel.

 

Then, after Charles accidentally scuffs his shoe on a pile of rocks, sending them clattering onto hard sand, he hears a quiet slither.

 

He freezes.

 

Charles whirls around, a spell ready on the tip of his tongue, but nothing greets him except for the darkness and a sliver of yellow light from his spell. Charles turns around again slowly, begins walking down the path.

 

A few moments of silence, and then –

 

“ _Confringo!_ ” shouts Charles, as he turns around, bright light shooting down the tunnel and erupting into a short burst of flames before dissipating into smoke.

 

His heart thuds heavily in his chest. Charles feels sweat dripping out of his pores, sliding down his forehead and into his eyes but his arm is frozen in place, wand pointing out in front of him –

 

Charles turns around a heartbeat too late.

 

There’s a loud slithering sound, and then excruciating pain – fiery, burning, searing pain – that shoots up Charles’ calf and up into his thigh; it feels like poison crawling up his veins, seeping into his blood –

 

“ _Confringo_!” shouts Charles again, as he whirls around, shooting the giant snake between its enormous yellow eyes – the fire evaporates as soon as it touches the snake’s scales.

 

He should’ve turned around sooner –

 

“ _Bombarda_!” Charles yells, whipping his wand through the air, and the giant thing opens its mouth, revealing two fangs – one ivory and one coated with blood – tongue flicking out to scent the air – “ _Sectumsempra!_ ”

 

And then a curtain of blood shimmers in the dry air for a moment before splattering onto the floor and Charles’ robes; Charles dashes by before the snake can fall, ignoring the arrows of pain that lace up his leg –

 

Charles pants with both exhilaration and pain as he paces away from the snake’s lacerated body, turning his head over his shoulder every so often to glance backwards. He should’ve turned around sooner, shouldn’t have let his guard down –

 

He chooses then to look down at his bloodied leg, which throbs with pain. The black material of Charles’ robe has ripped there as well, and Charles licks his lips. He can’t wash out his wound; there’s no way to Conjure water. Charles can’t look at the bite for longer than a few seconds at a time, and chooses to push on. His wand feels slippery in his hand, and Charles imagines the hands of his clock ticking; if this hour contains enormous, poisonous snakes, who knows what the next hour will bring.

 

Wincing, Charles rushes down the hallway. His leg seems to throb with pain, but Charles clenches his teeth and grips his wand tighter, determined not to give in.

 

He follows his yellow string, which begins to lead upwards now. Charles starts to feel slightly faint in the head.

 

As the tunnel begins sloping up again, the air becomes even hotter; Charles’ skin has dried but salty sweat still runs down his face, stinging his skin. The world begins to blur around the edges of his vision.

 

He tells himself, _concentrate_.

 

Charles’ breath begins to become ragged with exhaustion; he glances over his shoulder, paranoid. The dark walls of the sandy tunnel, hazy with heat, begin to swim.

 

Charles barely has enough energy within himself to pull out his wand and shift a mound of sand out of the way at the end of the tunnel; his eyes droop and his leg aches; there can’t be any way that there isn’t poison coursing through Charles’ vein right now –

 

The sun sends daggers of light into Charles’ eyes, exacerbating the pounding of his head in his skull –

 

Charles looks over his shoulder just as the sound of scales slithering across sand fills the air.

 

“ _Stupefy_ ,” Charles rasps, his hand trembling as he aims a red jet of light towards the snake, who pokes its enormous head out of the mouth of the tunnel from which Charles had emerged. And then again, when the snake shows no sign of unconsciousness, “ _Stupefy!_ ”

 

The snake hisses angrily in reprisal, rearing its giant head, its eyes large and malicious; Charles half-runs, half-drags his injured leg across the burning sand; the entire maze _boils_ with heat, the air rolling off of the sand and the walls in waves.

 

“ _Protego!_ ”

 

A shield of shimmering, bluish light appears in between the snake and Charles; the serpent slides up to the magic, its fat body coiling up behind him, and Charles _sprints_ , turning a sharp corner –

 

And _oh,_ there – there there there – gleams the Triwizard Cup, resting on a plinth and shimmering in the heat; it can’t be a mirage, it must be real, it must –

 

A loud hiss fills the air as the shield charm breaks, and Charles’ chest heaves with effort. His leg screams with agony, sweat drips freely into his eyes, and his vision stains with red and black.

 

_Concentrate._

 

Charles looks over his shoulder, and the snake unhinges its ugly maw, fangs gleaming in the merciless sun; Charles pushes forward even though every muscle in his body aches in protest –

 

It must be real –

 

And then Charles is close enough to read the inscription at the base of the cup – _Triwizard Tournament_ – close enough to stretch his trembling fingers out –

 

His vision fades to black and involuntarily, Charles’ eyes close.

 


	11. The Beginning

Charles wakes up warm and sleepy, his mind blissfully drowsy. For a moment, he doesn’t want to open his eyes. Underneath him, a warm feather mattress molds underneath the shape of his spine. A thick blanket covers him from chin to toe.

 

He almost slips under again, but then hears whispering around him.

 

“Charles?” someone murmurs, and with a great amount of difficulty, Charles opens his eyes. 

 

He’s in the hospital wing; sunlight filters in through the high glass windows and shines on the stone walls that reach up impossibly high. Charles blinks up at the vaulted ceiling.

 

“Charles?” repeats Moira, from where she sits by his cot.

 

Memories from the Tournament filter back to Charles and he blinks slowly again. Reaching out to take her hand, Charles croaks, “Moira.”

 

“Don’t ever do that again,” interrupts Raven from where she sits on the other side of him, and Charles turns slowly to face her.

 

“Raven,” rasps Charles.

 

Raven rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, Charles, it’s not like you’re on your deathbed.”

 

Charles breaks out into a grin at this, and a sudden warmth floods his stomach, golden and soft and fond. “You all really are wonderful, you know that?”

 

“We know,” grimaces Raven. Moira squeezes his hand a little tighter.

 

“No,” Charles realizes abruptly. He shifts up a little higher on the sheets. “No, really, Moira, Raven, you’ve all been – ”

 

“Charles,” interrupts Moira, exasperated but fond, “It’s only what you’ve done for all of us.”

 

Charles doesn’t know what to say.

 

“Anyway,” continues Raven, standing up and then moving to sit up the side of Charles’ cot, “You’ve been out for nearly a day.”

 

Charles huffs. “I feel fine, though. The mediwizards really do their job, don’t they?”

 

“It’s what they’re paid for,” Raven says. And then, “But don’t try anything like that again, Charles, they had to have the mediwizards on you for almost four hours.”

 

“Four hours,” repeats Charles, slightly disbelievingly.

 

Raven plows on and Moira watches carefully.

 

“We watched from the stands with the omnioculars: you used the snake tunnel to get to the center of the maze, Erik just went through and fought everything – it was insane, Charles.”

 

“Brute force,” comments Moira.

 

“And Maha,” continues Raven, “Maha actually used her to Time-Turner.”

 

Charles frowns with confusion. “She changed the rune,” Moira explains, “Rewrote it so that she could go forward in time again, back to the very first hour.”

 

“Where it was safer,” interjects Raven.

 

“Fascinating.” Charles sits up a little more. “She must’ve had to manipulate the unbreakable runes before – ”

 

“Right,” continues Raven hastily, “Anyway.”

 

“Do you want to know?” Moira interrupts, and Charles suddenly remembers that there’s a winner.

 

“Not particularly,” Charles pats Moira’s hand, “But I’ve a feeling Maha did, didn’t she?”

 

“Yup,” Raven pops the p, shifting in her seat slightly. “I’m surprised that wasn’t the first thing you asked when you woke up.”

 

“I am too,” Charles says mildly.

 

“You tried your best,” Moira says, smiling gently, and Charles smiles back. “The award ceremony was just this morning. They would’ve waited for you but Beauxbatons flies out tomorrow morning.”

 

He’s tried his best, and he did all he could. Moira turns to Raven and starts talking to her politely –  about what, Charles doesn’t know – while he lies there for a long moment, waiting to feel a rush of disappointment.

 

But there’s nothing. He tried his best; he did all he could.

 

“Really ingenious, though, that bit of Transfiguration,” Moira nods, carefully avoiding Charles’ gaze.

 

“Alright, Charles?” Raven asks, her voice uncharacteristically low and slow.

 

Even though he raises his wrist slowly, Charles still feels a spike of dull pain when he checks his watch for the tie.

 

“Shouldn't you all be at dinner?” Charles manages and suddenly his eyelids feel unbearably heavy.

 

“We can stay – ” begins Raven but Moira interrupts her.

 

“We’ll come back to visit, alright? Mediwitches say you can’t leave until they check in on you first.”

 

Charles grins in spite of himself. “Thank you,” he says reaching out to pat Moira’s hand, and then Raven’s. “Really,” he says his voice hoarse.

 

“Don’t sneak out,” murmurs Raven when she leans in to press her mouth against his forehead, her breath and her scent warm and comforting.

 

Chuckling, he replies lowly, “I can’t promise that.” Moira gives him a stern look and Charles feels a rumble of a laugh build in his belly.

 

“Thank you, darlings, but really, I will be fine.” He smiles to show them all is well, and reluctantly, Moira squeezes his hand in farewell.

 

“You did well, Charles,” she says, her mouth curled into something soft and familiar and her eyes fierce, before she pats his wrist and exits the hall, Raven following behind her.

 

And Charles lies there for a while.

 

Above him, the ceiling girders twist into a beautifully ornate design. Charles thinks of the runes made of oozing bars from the pestilence hour. He shifts slightly and the sheets echo his movement in a quiet rustle.

 

There is no rushing tide of disappointment. Nor is there a swell of anger. There is no jealousy or regret, only a mournful voice at the back of Charles’ head that laments this being over.

 

He did all he could.

 

Charles shifts again and slips into sleep.

 

-

 

When Charles wakes for the second time that day, the sun has just begun to sink below the horizon, the last vestiges of daylight filtering through the hospital wing’s glass windows.

 

The mediwitches, who were chatting in a corner, hurry over to check up on Charles.

 

One tedious, overly thorough examination later, Charles swings his feet over the side of the cot and grabs his black robes – someone has kindly washed and pressed them – and tugs them on.

 

He’s walking out a moment after that, his footfalls echoing noisily in the wing, which is now empty that the mediwitches and wizards have left.

 

Charles passes through the great wooden doors of the hospital wing, and some part of his mindset must still be in that arena, still counting each hour and still aggressively vigilant, because he sees, out of the corner of his eye, a dark shadow pull off the wall and walk close –

 

And of course, it’s –

 

“Erik,” Charles says. It startles him, how fond his voice sounds.

 

And Erik doesn’t say anything, falls into step easily, walking close to Charles as the two of them make their way down the corridor.

 

Charles smiles at him, serenely, and suddenly feels a great calmness ripple through him.

 

It takes the Seeker a moment, but then Erik smiles back beautifully, small and tentative.

 

The rest of the school, thankfully, is at dinner. The halls are quiet as they walk.

 

“Do you remember,” starts Charles, and his voice echoes in the empty hallway. He decisively stays away from the subject of the Tournament. “When I first saw you? That night when the Cup was revealed?”

 

“I saw you at the World Cup,” Erik counters amusedly. His hands are stowed away in his pockets and he walks with an easy, loping grace.

 

“You did?” Charles turns a bit to better look at Erik. “Well,” Charles drags out the vowel, “Hopefully the next time I see you over the summer won’t be from the stands.”

 

“No,” Erik agrees, “Hopefully not.”

 

“You know,” Charles exhales, rolling his head back and looking up at the vaulted ceiling, “I was laying on the cot – they made me, for half the day – and I was thinking about what you said.”

 

“What did I say?”

 

Something playful flares in Charles’ belly. “What, you don’t remember?” he teases.

 

“Remind me again,” Erik says plainly, but the corner of his mouth tilts up.

 

Charles exhales loudly. “There’s a point – somewhere, something – a balance point.” Charles scuffs his foot as he walks and reaches out with his right hand, trails his fingers over the grooves and bumps formed by the bas-relief of the corridor walls. He imagines he is playing a piano. “And I think I’ve found it.”

 

“Where?” Erik asks, his voice low.

 

“Not sure,” Charles says, a little absent-mindedly, “I think I might’ve found it a while ago, but I haven’t recognized it until now.”

 

He turns to Erik, lets his arm fall back to his side, falling back in step with Erik’s stride. “How long did you wait outside the hospital wing?”

 

“An hour or so,” replies Erik, and as they turn a corner towards the Great Hall, Erik’s shoulder presses into Charles’ not so coincidentally.

 

“Raven and Moira came right after the award ceremony. The rest of them didn’t come, but they visited,” Charles’ lips quirk, “And you waited for an hour outside the wing, waiting for me. For _me_.” Charles shakes his head disbelievingly. “Not for the title of Triwizard champion, not because I’m anything other than – than me.”

 

“They care for you,” Erik says, after a mild pause.

 

“I was so caught up in – in everything recently and I – ” Charles starts, then stops. He licks his lips, doesn’t know how to say that he’s been so unseeing, so ignorant of what’s been around him since the beginning.

 

But Erik nods understandingly, and Charles lets out another breath.

 

“The Ministry,” Charles shifts to another subject, “They sent me a letter just before the Third Task.”

 

“When will you start working?” Erik asks, without an ounce of humor, and Charles breaks into a grin.

 

“This summer, at the Department of Mysteries.”

 

“Holed up in a little lab, casting spells on mysterious boxes.”

 

“Hopefully it won’t be that dull,” scoffs Charles.

 

“It can’t be all dull with you there,” muses Erik. “And you’ll have lunch breaks where you can write letters to Hank and Raven and the rest of them.” He pauses. “And me.”

 

“Or you can come visit me instead,” says Charles, smiling.

 

“How dull can your job get?” Erik says, his mouth curled into a grin.

 

Charles protests, “It doesn’t need to be dull for you to visit me.”

 

Erik smiles and Charles wants to run to the nearest Pensieve, draw the memory out of his mind with his wand until it swirls in a silver basin, coiling up like a snake; Charles wants to watch it over and over and over.

 

A moment later, Erik says, apologetically, “I have to get back to the ship,” as they near the Great Hall. “Munroe wants to see me before the dinner tonight.”

 

“Right,” Charles nods. “See you tomorrow then?”

 

“Tomorrow,” agrees Erik, reaching out to squeeze Charles’ hand, causing a flush to rise in Charles’ cheeks.

 

And then the Durmstrang boy turns, heads towards the Grand Entrance, and out to the black lake beyond.

 

For a moment, Charles watches him go.

 

Then, something loosens in Charles’ gut, like the unclenching of a tight jaw or the exhalation of an anxious breath. He turns and heads up the stairs.

 

Charles passes the statue of Boris the Bewildered and walks right up to a wooden door, says, “Pine fresh,” and slips inside as the door whispers shut behind him.

 

An enormous chandelier throws light off of every white marble surface and Charles heads to the sink, flipping on the faucet and running his hands under the warm water easily.

 

“Oh dear,” sighs Sebastian. “Back again?”

 

“Hello, Sebastian,” Charles says.

 

_Drip. Drip drip._

 

“They’re leaving, aren’t they,” observes the ghost, floating up from where he was hovering above a toilet. “Your darling boy Erik is leaving.”

 

“For now,” agrees Charles. Belatedly, Charles realizes that this will most likely be the last time he stands in this bathroom.

 

“Heard you got into the Department of Mysteries,” says Sebastian, his voice ringing against the white marble of the prefects’ bathroom. “Quite the disappointment, eh? Not going to follow in tradition, become the Minister of Magic like your grandfather?”

 

“It’s not for me,” Charles says, drying his hands. “And I doubt I’d be happy there.”

 

“An Xavier, happy?” scoffs Sebastian, zooming through the air to come and float by Charles’ sink.

 

_Drip drip drip._

 

“First you applied to the Department of _Mysteries_ ,” Sebastian sneers the name, “As if you were looking for the most obscure, unrecognized department in the entire Ministry. And then you didn’t win the Tournament – God, Charles it’s as if you were trying to be a disgrace.”

 

“I don’t – I don’t need _that_ in my life,” Charles reasons, furrowing his eyebrows and looking at himself in the mirror. “I have – ”

 

“Nothing,” Sebastian finishes his sentence, floating ominously closer so Charles can make out the hazy shape of his noncorporeal being in the mirror. “You are nothing without your name, without your inheritance. You have nothing, Xavier, and I’m the only one to tell you.”

 

_Drip. Drip drip drip._

 

“I have all I need,” Charles quirks his lips, thinks of the pile of sweets waiting for him at the foot of his cot in the hospital wing. Charles shakes his head at himself. “No, I’m fine where I am, Sebastian.” Charles turns around, meeting Sebastian’s cold, gray gaze. “Are you?”

 

“Come and visit me sometime, Charles,” Sebastian says, his mouth twisting into a crooked smile.

 

Charles turns around and begins to head out of the bathroom. As an afterthought, Charles waves his wand behind him, and the faucet snaps shut. Silence rings in the bathroom, off of the marble surfaces.

 

Charles says,“Goodbye, Sebastian.”

 

-

 

The next morning, Raven and Charles head down to visit Logan in his cabin before the train comes.

 

As they walk, Charles half-heartedly tries to veer the subject towards Azazel and Hank, but Raven stubbornly remains devoted to a Quidditch play that will take place over the summer.

 

“The best of both teams, Charles, can you imagine that?”

 

“No,” Charles sighs. “No, I really can’t.”

 

Raven smirks. “Do you even know what a Quaffle is?”

 

“I do,” protests Charles, and he makes a mental note to ask Raven about the Slytherin prefect sometime over the summer.

 

The sun slices through a thatch of dark trees. Raven and Charles chat amicably the rest of the way, and Logan strides out to meet them before they even reach the cabin.

 

“Good to see ya, bub,” Logan leans against the doorframe of his hut, lighting a cigar that’s wedged between his teeth. Logan jerks his head in greeting to Raven.

 

“Busy?” asks Raven.

 

“Come on in,” Logan says, swinging his door wide open.

 

Two enormous beer mugs and two large plates lie on the wooden table when Raven and Charles enter the cabin. “Did you have a guest?” asks Raven.

 

“Jean,” Logan huffs, “She jus’ left.”.

 

“Who?” Charles says curiously.

 

“Madame Grey,” Logan corrects himself, and ah, Charles remembers that night that Logan had showed him the Nundus. Charles opens his mouth to ask about that but Logan turns to take some more cups out of a cabinet, busying himself with coffee.

 

“Alright, chuck?” asks Logan, his wide back facing Raven and Charles.

 

“I think so,” Charles says.

 

“You will be,” Logan says, ignoring Charles completely. “No good worrying about shit before it comes anyway, eh?” Logan turns around and shakes his head. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it then.”

 

“The newspaper,” Raven begins, but stops when Logan grins viciously.

 

“That Frost woman, huh?” Logan plops two mugs onto the table. Charles sips politely.

 

“What happened to her?” Raven frowns, “I thought she’d be all over the Tournament and,” Raven stops.

 

“Ask your friend,” Logan says easily, leaning back in his wooden chair, throwing his feet on the table next to a platter of what looks like doughy protein bars. “The dark and broody one.” Logan waves a cigar vaguely, drawing smoking shapes into the air.

 

“Erik?” Raven frowns. “What would Erik Lehnsherr – ”

 

“Logan!” someone’s muffled voice penetrates the thick wood of the hut’s door. “Open up, I know you’re in there. I want to talk.”

 

“We should be going,” Charles says apologetically, “Sorry about this, Logan, I know we didn’t give you any warning – ”

 

“Door’s unlocked, asshole,” Logan calls brusquely from his seat, then takes a long drag from his cigar.

 

The door slams open to reveal Scott Summers, sunburnt and red. “Logan – oh.”

 

“Hi Scott,” says Raven.

 

“Hi Raven. Hi Charles. Good job out there, man.” Scott shakes his head. “Those beasts weren’t easy.”

 

“Don’t lie,” Raven says, grinning. She turns to Charles. “Scott was hardly watching you, Charles, he was watching the magical creatures – you know how he – ”

 

Scott interrupts hastily, “I was watching both, alright? Don’t listen to her, Charles.”

 

Charles grins at the both of them before pushing his seat back, the legs of his chair scraping against the wood floor, and rising. “Thanks for this, Logan, but Raven and I should get going. We still have to pack.”

 

Raven sighs, clearly eager to listen to Scott and Logan’s tales of encounters with magical creatures, but gets up as well. Charles smiles apologetically.

 

“Any time, bub,” Logan says, watching his cigar, just as Scott says, “Aw, you don’t have to leave on my account, guys – I just need – ”

 

“Let ‘em go, for Chrissake,” grumbles Logan. “And sit your ass down, Summers.”

 

“Goodbye Scott, bye Logan,” Raven calls as they walk out the cabin.

 

“We’ll write you!” Charles waves a hand. “Come visit over the summer!”

 

They step back out into the light, and Raven loops an arm through Charles’ as they walk back to the castle.

 

-

 

Charles’ trunk bulges with clothes; he’d been too lazy and too rushed, having left his packing to the last minute, to take the time and clean his clothes, spell them into his trunk neatly. As he walks down the stairs, his trunk and things floating behind him, and into the corridor, Charles wonders how many times, how many thousand times, he has walked through this entrance hall, walked up and down these moving staircases, stood in front of the Grand Hall. It feels a bit like a dream, as though Charles hadn’t really spent seven years of his life here. Only this moment, only the warm summer air wafting through his hair and whispering across his skin feels real right now. With a pang, Charles realizes that his time here has come to an end.

 

From climbing moving staircases to wandering across the beautiful grounds to discovering the many hidden secrets of the castle, Charles can safely say that he has enjoyed his time here. Hogwarts has become his home, a warm place, a friendly place, and Charles will miss it. Of course, he can come over the summer to visit Logan, but it won’t be really the same.

 

Charles shakes his head.

 

He waits in the crowded entrance hall with Hank talking to the Summers boys and Darwin on one side, and Raven, Angel, Azazel, Sean, and Moira on the other. Charles eyes the two sides speculatively, and decides to fix this rift this summer. They wait for the carriages that will take them back to Hogsmeade station. Charles imagines the heat that will surround Westchester like a blanket, and hopes that there will be a long shadow behind the mansion that Charles can sit under, watching the sky idly.

 

“Charles!”

 

Behind him, Maha Abdelaziz climbs gently up the stone steps to the castle. Behind her, the Beauxbatons carriages prepare to take off; the Beauxbatons students mill around the beautiful horses and Charles thinks he can make out the figures of Jean Grey and Logan, talking beside an enormous carriage.

 

“Write me, yeah?” she asks, grinning profusely, and Charles can’t help but smile back. Exuberance surrounds her like a glowing halo and Charles takes her hand gladly.

 

“Of course.” He pulls her in for a tight hug.

 

She turns to Moira and says her goodbyes before hurrying back across lawns to the rest of the Beauxbatons students, her black hair reflecting a string of lights in the summer day. Charles feels his spirits lift.

 

“Wonder when Durmstrang’s leaving,” Hank mutters, shifting his weight from one foot to the next.

 

“Soon, I expect,” Charles says, turning to see a group of Durmstrang students, clad in their heavy furs regardless of the summer weather, heading across the lawn toward the black lake.

 

“Soon,” agrees a deep voice from behind all of them.

 

“Erik!” Raven says in greeting.

 

Erik nods to Raven, then Moira, in greeting. “Can I have a word?” he directs towards Charles.

 

“Oh – right, yes,” Charles says, following Erik a little ways away from the rest of the group.

 

“I got something for you,” Erik says lowly. He pulls something out from within his thick robes, handing it to Charles.

 

“ _My 60 Memorable Games?_ ” Charles asks, incredulously. “You got me a chess book?”

 

Erik shrugs magnanimously. “I thought I’d give you some time to study up before I come to visit you during the summer.”

 

“So you are coming to visit,” Charles remarks, tucking the book into his own bookbag. He steps a little closer to Erik, shifting his weight to his left foot and leaning forward.

 

The corner of Erik’s mouth tugs upwards and, impulsively, Charles leans in to peck it. “Write me before you come.”

 

Erik opens his mouth to say something but someone from behind them wolf whistles.

 

“Oh God,” Charles mumbles, and he can’t see behind him, but he says, “That was probably Raven. She really ought to – ”

 

What she really ought to do, Erik never finds out, because at that moment, Erik steps in and curls a hand around Charles’ wrist, bringing the other around to brush against Charles’ cheek, leaning in to kiss Charles full on the mouth.

 

Charles breathes out in surprise, but his eyes slide shut on their own, and naturally, Charles reaches up to fist his hands in Erik’s robes, leaning up on his tiptoes to better kiss Erik.

 

Someone hoots loudly and Erik lets go. Charles steps back, blushing profusely.

 

“Well,” Erik says. His eyes glint with humor.

 

“Unnecessary,” Charles mumbles, reaching down to straighten out his robes.

 

Erik says nothing, but he hums contentedly as he places a hand on Charles’ back, guides them back to where Moira stands, arms crossed smugly.

 

“Thank you for that,” Raven says, drily.

 

“No one asked you to watch,” quips Angel.

 

Erik ignores them both, holding out a hand to Moira to say goodbye.

 

Charles exhales unsteadily, readjusting his grip on his bookbag.

 

“Charles,” Scott snorts, pushing Hank aside. “Charles, look, man, you gotta help Alex – ”

 

“Shut up,” Alex mumbles from where he stands behind Hank and Darwin. The latter two are immersed in their own conversation with a student from Beauxbatons.

 

“What’s the matter?” Charles frowns, his blush receding on account of his inner prefect surfacing. “Alex?”

 

“Nothing,” the younger brother all but growls. Alex looks as though he were suffering from some kind of painful, internal struggle. Charles opens his mouth to speak just as Erik says his last goodbyes to the girls, turning around to pull Charles in for a last embrace. “I’ll write you,” Charles murmurs, into Erik’s ear, before the Seeker pulls back.

 

“See you soon,” Erik says, squeezing Charles’ wrist in reply. Charles’ stomach twists with something warm and with something good. Erik waves his hand in farewell to Moira and Raven, beginning to walk away when Alex bursts out, “Can I have your autograph?”

 

Charles grins, turning away to smile at the Beauxbatons’ carriages that lift above the Forbidden Forest, towards the sun, as Erik signs a piece of parchment for Alex.

 

-

 

As the Hogwarts Express hurtles down the path to King’s Cross, Charles manages to fit the lot of them into a compartment: Hank, Sean, Angel, and himself on one bench and Raven, Alex, and Darwin on the other. Scott, who had flown on broomstick, already departed at the Hogsmeade station, promising to keep in touch over the summer.

 

The lot of them chatter amicably, and Charles lets the sounds of his friends wash over him as he rests his head on the windowsill, eyes slipping shut. Underneath him, Charles feels the train rumbling, its wheel turning over and over to propel them away from Hogwarts.

 

They break their conversation only when the trolley arrives, and even then, they still squabble over who gets which flavor of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans and who gets to swap which Chocolate Frog cards. When Raven returns from the trolley she pulls out a copy of the Daily Prophet.

 

“Nothing,” she announces, after scanning through the entire issue. “There’s nothing in there.”

 

Charles frowns. “I forget to ask Erik about that.”

 

Raven shrugs. “Like Logan said, there’s no need to worry about it now. We’ll have time to ask him over summer.”

 

“We’ll ask him over summer,” Charles repeats, rolling the words in his mouth.

 

There are many words still left unsaid, looks left unexchanged, questions unanswered, but like Logan had said, whatever happens, whatever comes, we’ll deal with it. And as Charles looks around, from Hank and Alex to Angel, from Raven to Sean and from Darwin to Moira, looks down at the chess book nestled snugly in his bookbag, and looks out the window to the blurry world beyond, Charles believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to [Shiratori_uta](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiratori_uta/pseuds/Shiratori_uta) for looking this over for me, and thank you all who kept commenting and encouraging me. When I began writing this story on a whim, I didn’t really expect to end up writing 65k, but I’m glad we’ve finished.
> 
> That being said, I think this story is very Charles-centric, and so I’m thinking about a sequel for the two of them, except this time from the POV of Erik, where the two of them deal with life after Hogwarts and Erik’s past. There’s lots of things that I’ve left undeveloped in this story (Raven and Azazel, Shaw, the Logan-Jean-Scott thing, Frost, etc.) and so maybe I could look at those as well as the progression of Charles and Erik’s relationship after Hogwarts in a sequel. I’m not sure if I’ll actually end up writing it yet, but we will see.
> 
> Thank you all for your support!! I apologize for the inconsistent posting, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless!


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